Rain began to fall early that afternoon, a steady persistent downpour that held no immediate promise of abatement. A melancholy grayness enveloped Jollyland, converting it into a bleak and dismal habitation wherein dwelt people who seemed to have drunk of the chalice of desolation. Rain at the seaside is depressing enough, but rain in a summer park in the height of the season, rain that comes up just after the gates are opened and that looks as if it would last for twenty-four hours, produces an effect of gloom that almost defies description. Thousands of once gay flags twisted themselves limply around their poles; dozens of lady cashiers who hadn’t taken in a cent for hours and who were tired of their novels and incessant gum-chewing gazed listlessly into the leaden sky and wished they were home in Flatbush or Astoria; low-spirited concessionaires figured up their losses with pencil and paper and would have cursed the Fates if they had known of the existence of those divinities; performers, literally sick with ennui, clustered in little groups under cover and querulously argued with each other about trivialities; the waiters in the “Trianon” restaurant at the end of what was called the Street of a Thousand Delights, foreseeing that there would be no largesse forthcoming until the dawn of another day, rolled dice for the previous night’s pickings or aimlessly discussed Flying Scud’s chances in the fifth race at Belmont Park; the South Sea Islanders crooned weird chants under the shelter of their grass huts and McClintock smoked thick, black cigars and called up his friend in the weather bureau every fifteen minutes in a vain search for cheerful tidings. At seven o’clock in the evening—not a single patron having crossed the threshold of the park for four hours and the weather man’s report still being “continued rain”––he ordered Jollyland officially closed for the night, shut his desk with a vicious slam and stepped over to Jimmy Martin’s office for a chat.

“Well,” remarked the press agent, glancing up from his typewriter, “it looks as if we were in for a nice quiet evening at home. Has there been any squawk lately from my Italian friend?”

“There’s hasn’t been a peep out of him since yesterday,” replied the manager. “This rain has given him something else to worry about. He loves money as the flowers love the dew, and I’ll bet he hasn’t taken in $8.25 all day.”

McClintock dropped into a chair, swung one foot on Jimmy’s desk and lazily puffed at his cigar while the press agent ground out on the clicking machine a romantic tale concerning a lady rejoicing in the cognomen of Montana Maggie, who rode a cow pony in Laramie Ike’s Wild West Show and who totally annihilated dozens of glass balls with her trusty rifle at every exhibition given in that concession. Outside the rain poured incessantly. A mist-laden breeze found its way through the open windows, but it didn’t seem to dampen the pristine enthusiasm of Jimmy Martin who was working with all the fervor of a reporter trying to catch an edition with a big murder story and the “dead line” only ten minutes away.

Presently there came to the ears of both men the echo of a far-off sound that penetrated through the monotonous murmur of the dripping rain. It seemed like the blended babble of many voices and yet it was vaguely indistinct. McClintock jerked his foot off the desk and straightened up in his chair.

“If it wasn’t raining so-dog-goned hard,” he remarked “I’d say someone was staging a doughboy’s ‘welcome home’ parade or a young riot. What is it, I wonder?”

“There’s doings somewhere close at hand,” was Jimmy’s comment as he stood up, walked towards one of the windows, and peered out. “Here’s little old Paul Revere now, coming to tell us the news.”

The next instant a dripping park attendant, white-faced and trembling with excitement, burst through the door.

“Mr. McClintock,” he stammered, “there’s particular hell to pay down in the South Sea village. That bunch of wild-eyed nuts is all soused and they look as if they was gettin’ ready to go on the warpath. They’re crazy drunk—where they got the stuff beats me,——and they’re dancin’ around and singing’ songs fierce and when Patsy Burke tried to go in and argue with ’em they threw spears at him. He got cut in the shoulder—it ain’t anything bad—but you can’t tell what’ll happen and the rest of us is kinda upset. You’d better come along right away. We’ve got guards posted all around the fence, but I’m afraid if they start to come out something pretty rough’ll happen.”

“The end of a perfect day,” murmured the manager as he jammed his hat on his head and plunged out into the driving rain, closely followed by Jimmy and the attendant.

The events of the next hour were as full of exciting incident as the entire fifteen reels of a movie “serial.” The attendant had spoken truly when he stated that the forty-odd savages in the village were drunk. They were roaring, raving drunk. When McClintock and Jimmy reached their habitat they were filling the air with wild cries and maniacal shrieks. They were brandishing spears and vicious looking war clubs, and were dancing about the grass hut of Chief Mumbo Tom with all the fierce abandon of whirling dervishes. That ancient dignitary was sitting in front of the royal palace on his throne chair in a state of maudlin stupor, draining the last dregs of a bottle which he held to his lips and directing the festivities with encouraging waves of his free hand. The steady downpour of rain seemed to have no effect whatever on the celebration.

Finally the chief dropped the bottle and clapped his hands. There was silence for a moment and he made a brief speech, liberally punctuated by hiccoughs. When he had finished the others gave a concerted cheer and turned towards the stockade which surrounded the village.

“They’re coming out,” shouted McClintock, who was peering through an opening, “get your clubs ready, boys. Don’t anybody shoot. We’ll get into all kinds of a mix-up if you do.”

The battle royal which followed lasted for several minutes. The special policeman and other attendants gathered outside the enclosure won out after a desperate struggle and drove all but three of the rioters back. These three managed to worm their way through the press and went shrieking up the main street of Jollyland in emulation of their brother whose adventures of the day before have already been duly chronicled. The net damage which they wrought before capture was appraised on the following day at several thousand dollars. When the partially sobered villagers renewed their effort to get out of the stockade fifteen minutes later they were met with decided opposition from the park’s fire company, which had been called out by McClintock. A well directed high-pressure stream of water from a fire hose sent them tumbling over one another in disordered array and brought about a final cessation of hostilities.

In the excitement attendant upon the suppression of the incipient revolution no one observed a spectator who watched the proceedings from a sheltered position directly opposite the main entrance of the village. No one overheard his chuckles or saw him twirl the ends of his waxed moustache with a little gesture expressive of pleased satisfaction with himself. For that matter no one had seen one of his assistants unload three cases of Chianti from a push-cart in the rear of Mumbo Tom’s dwelling late in the afternoon during a particularly heavy downpour of rain or had overheard the announcement that the villagers were requested to drink to Signor Antonio Amato’s health. And there was no one to overhear the signor murmur as he stole back to his office through the gathering darkness.

“I tella dem I putta de park on de bum.”