Those noisome creatures, the hired murderers of _Fate's Footpills_, descended upon Marvis Bay early next afternoon, and George, meeting them at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given to Arthur Mifflin, felt moodily that, if only they could make their acting one-half as full of colour as their clothes, the play would be one of the most pronounced successes of modern times. In the forefront gleamed, like the white plumes of Navarre, the light flannel suit of Arthur Mifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity. His woodenness was, however, confined to stage rehearsals. It may be mentioned that, once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficiently volatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so--a fact which had been noted at an early date by the keen-eyed authorities of his University, the discovery leading to his tearing himself away from Alma Mater by request with some suddenness. He was a long, slender youth, with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness for the sound of his own voice. 'Well, here we are,' he said, kicking breezily at George's leg with his cane. 'I saw you,' said George, coldly, side-stepping. 'The whole team,' continued Mr Mifflin; 'all bright, bonny, and trained to the minute.' 'What happened after I left?' George asked. 'Has anybody begun to act yet? Or are they waiting till the dress-rehearsal?' 'The rehearsals,' admitted Mr Mifflin, handsomely, 'weren't perfect; but you wait. It'll be all right on the night.' George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark. 'Besides,' said Mr Mifflin, 'I have an idea which will make the show. Lend me your ear--both ears. You shall have them back. Tell me: what pulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that, as in the present case, what? Fine acting by the leading juvenile? We have that, but it is not enough. No, my boy; advertisement is the thing. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in of their own free wills to see a play like _The Footpills_? Not on your life. About the time the curtain rises every man of them will be sitting in his own private corner of the beach--' 'How many corners do you think the beach has?' 'Gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, "Shine on, thou harvest moon", and telling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice. You know.' 'I don't,' said George, coldly. 'Unless,' proceeded Mr Mifflin, 'we advertise. And by advertise, I mean advertise in the right way. We have a Press-agent, but for all the good he does he might be back on the old farm, gathering in the hay. Luckily for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I have resource. What's that?' 'I said nothing.' 'I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these people like a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train.' 'What is it?'