The chums dispatched a substantial breakfast at the restaurant. Then they started out on their second day’s investigation of conditions and prospects at Seaside Park. Frank made it a point to interview several owners of concessions along the beach. Those with whom he talked had attractions vastly inferior to the one the chums designed to operate, but the boys picked up many a suggestion and useful hint. It was shortly before noon when they sat down to rest under a tree in that part of the town given over to permanent residences and summer cottages. They began talking over the ever-present theme of their photo playhouse when there was an interruption. Down the street there strolled leisurely a young man who made it a point to halt whenever he got in front of a house. There he would linger and begin a series of whistling exploits that made the air vibrate with the most ravishing melody. “Say, just listen to that!” exclaimed Pep, in a pleased tone. “It’s one of those trick whistles,” declared Randy. “Then it’s an extra fine one,” said Pep. “I think you are mistaken, boys,” suggested Frank. “Those are real human notes—at least almost exact human imitations of bird tones.” “Well, then, the fellow must have a throat like a nightingale,” asserted the enthusiastic Pep. The active whistler deserved all the chums said about him. His repertoire seemed exhaustless. He confined himself to imitations of birds exclusively—and of only such birds as were native to the surrounding country. He fairly filled the air with melody, and real birds in the trees and shrubbery about the handsome residences of the locality twittered, hopped about and responded in an echoing chorus to his expert call. Little children came running out of yards to gaze in wonder and admiration at this unusual warbler. Even older folks watched and listened to him. The man turned a corner out of view of the motion picture chums, followed by quite a procession. He had scarcely vanished before a high wagon such as is used to carry cooper’s barrels turned slowly into the street. A slow old horse pulled it along. Its driver nimbly leaped from his seat. The moment he called out “Whoa!” to the horse and turned his face toward the chums, Pep Smith uttered a great shout. “Why, fellows, see,” he cried, in mingled glee and surprise—“it’s Ben Jolly!” CHAPTER V—THE BIRD HOUSE Ben Jolly it was, more sprightly, more jolly-looking than ever, for he waved his hand with a genial smile to the children staring down the side street after the whistler. The other reached into the wagon. Instantly upon recognizing their old-time friend and helper the three chums started in his direction. “Hi, there!” hailed Pep, while Randy waved his hand gaily and all hurried their gait. “Well! well!” exclaimed Jolly, his face an expanding smile of welcome, extending both hands and greeting his friends in turn. “I expected to find you here and headed for here, but I did not expect to run across you so oddly.”