A deep hush pervaded the audience. The people were spellbound. Even Pep, standing against the side wall, felt a thrill pass through him. So natural and fitting had been the climax of the picture that its effect was apparent in a general rustling—a deep breath that swayed the onlookers.

The wrecker turned and his lips again moved as if to form for a signal whistle. Shrilly the call wavered about the scene.

“A talking picture!” Pep heard someone whisper.

“It’s great!” echoed another voice.

A magnificent Newfoundland dog came bounding down the beach. Its young master held a coil of rope in his hand. He seemed swayed by conflicting emotions. Then he appeared to arrive at a conclusion.

He would not see that noble ship go to pieces on the rocks! He secured one end of the rope to the collar of the animal and made signs. The intelligent dog lifted his head. A joyous, willing bark rang out. It was real—like the call—like the whistle.

“Ginger!” exclaimed Pep Smith, in a stupefied way.

The dog disappeared. Then a dim light showed far out at sea and there sounded out the distant echo of the foghorn of a steamer. It was so familiar to the audience, so natural, that more than one among them probably lost himself and almost fancied he was standing on that lonely storm-lashed beach with the wrecker.

The film ran its course—the rope was carried by the faithful dog to the imperiled ship. A safety line was sent ashore. Passengers and crew were all saved and among them a beautiful young girl.

The last picture showed a lovely garden—the grounds of the home of the father of the rescued girl. She was reading a book in a vernal bower. The wrecker, her lover, appeared. Birds swayed among the blossoming branches of the trees. He spoke—she listened. Then, arm in arm, they walked slowly from the garden to the accompaniment of soft bird notes that filled the whole house with the most ravishing melody.

The lights came on amid furious and genuine applause. A delighted and excited old man jumped up on his chair and waved his hat, shouting:

“Three cheers for the best show on earth!”

“That was just famous.”

“Must be one of those new speaking pictures.”

“Oh, we must get all the folks to come to this delightful show!”

Pep’s heart beat proudly as the audience filed out and he overheard this encouraging praise. He could hardly contain himself. Then he noticed Ben Jolly beckoning to him and he glided over to the piano. Jolly’s face was one broad, delighted smile.

“How was it, Pep?” he inquired.

“No, what was it!” corrected Pep in a fluster, and then he noticed that the cornetist had remained seated—and he guessed something.

“Him?” he questioned.

“Correct!” replied Jolly. “Give Durham the tip. It’s Hal Vincent. Durham must have noticed the brilliant accompaniment to the films and I don’t want to get him rattled wondering what’s up.”

Pep had some difficulty in getting to the operator’s booth. A long line of people were in place at the doors and they came in with a rush as the room was emptied. Pep tapped and Frank told him to come in.

“Did you hear—did you notice it?” spoke Pep, excitedly.

“Why, of course,” replied Frank. “I couldn’t understand it at first, but I know it must be some professional imitator.”

“It was Mr. Vincent. He wore a false beard.”

“You don’t say so!” cried Frank.

“Yes, and he was the cornetist outside, too.” Pep went on.

“All a piece of Mr. Jolly’s work, I suppose?”

“Of course,” replied Pep. “When he got that message this afternoon Mr. Vincent was probably at the hotel. Then he arranged to surprise us.”

“It’s more than a surprise—it’s given tone and novelty to the whole entertainment.”

The routine of set duties prevented the boys from prolonging the conversation. Jolly had begun the intermission overture and the seats were filling up fast. A good many had remained from the first audience. It took little circulating among the benches for Pep to learn that “A Wrecker’s Romance,” with its realistic interpretation, was responsible for this.

There was not a break in the second show, but there was a great surprise for the boys when the third and last programme began. A good many who had been to the National had got around to the rival playhouse. Home-going crowds from the beach made a stop.

“Nearly fifty people turned away,” reported Randy, as Pep slipped out to have a word with him.

“There must have been over eight hundred admissions,” figured Pep.

“One thousand, one hundred and fifty exactly,” reported Randy.

“Why, say,” cried Pep, “at that rate we’re going to be rich!”

“Hey, young fellow,” hailed a man appearing at this moment—“I suppose there’s a free list for friends?”

“I should say so,” responded Pep, recognizing the workman at the National he had gotten so chummy with. “Step right in, although I’m afraid I can’t offer you a seat.”

“Crowded as that; eh?” spoke the man. “That’s fine.”

“How is it at the National?” asked Pep. “Do they keep busy?”

“Every seat taken, but then you know they gave away a lot of tickets. Why, say,” proceeded the man as they got inside, “I had no idea you could fix this place up so nifty.”

“I suppose they opened at the National before they were all ready?” suggested Pep, who was dreadfully curious about the proceedings of Peter Carrington and his friends.

“I should say they did! They had to use boards for seats and several of them split in two. The funniest thing, though, was when one of the private boxes broke down.”

“Say,” propounded Pep, “did they really build some private boxes?”

“They did, for a fact. They were no use and no ornament, and the fellow who bosses things—his name is Beavers—kicked big against it. Young Carrington would have it, though, so we hurried through the best we could to-day. We told him the floor wasn’t in and not to move the chairs about, but he got in there with some chums. First thing we knew one of them shifted his position, and the three of them went through the floor and landed sprawling on top of the piano. It was a sight, I tell you, and the audience roared.”

“Well, I declare!” spoke Jolly, an hour later, as he came to the front of the playhouse with Vincent. “The last entertainment over and I believe you could gather up enough to run another show.”

“It certainly looks like it,” added Frank.

The last audience had dispersed, but around and near the Wonderland a great many persons and groups loitered or strolled along leisurely. They were the late stayers about the beach, and had the lights been left on and the ticket office open many of them no doubt would have entered the playhouse.

“Enough is as good as a feast,” laughed Randy, hugging his tin cash box under his arm with great complacency. “It couldn’t have been better.”

“I guess we’ve hit it this time,” pronounced Pep, proudly.

“That isn’t always so hard to do at the start,” advised Hal Vincent. “It’s keeping it up that counts. You want to advertise now—new stunts, novelties, attractions.”

“Attractions!” cried Pep. “Can the best of them beat those cornet solos? Novelties! Why, those talking pictures will be the hit of the town.”

“You are a famous friend, Mr. Vincent,” spoke Frank, warmly.

“And ought to be a famous man,” supplemented Jolly, loyally. “He’s worth putting on a special programme, Durham.”

“I got through with my city lawsuit just in time,” explained Vincent. “Made quite a good settlement, too. First thing I did was to release my wardrobe and dummies from embargo. They are ready to ship to any point where I may find an engagement.”

“Then give your order for their delivery at Seaside Park forthwith, Mr. Vincent,” directed Frank, spontaneously. “I’ll risk saying that we can pay you what is fair for a month’s steady run at least.”

“Things seem to be building up right along the line; don’t they, Pep?” piped the piano player briskly, giving his favorite a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Oh!” cried Randy, “we’re going to find all kinds of fame and fortune at Seaside Park.”

“By—the—wild—sea—waaa-ves!” added the versatile Vincent, throwing his ventriloquist voice way off over the beach in a sing-song way that startled passers-by.