There had swept in through the open windows upon the evening breeze a strange--a startling--series of sounds: “Ump! Ump!” “Bla-aat bla-aat,” “Flar-op, flar-op,” “Tootle-tootle”--a dismal melody filled the room, half notes, a mixture of notes, some of sledge hammer force, some weak and squeaking. “Oh, hold me!” cried Randy, going into convulsions of laughter--“it’s that Little German Band.” This seemed true, for they could trace the source of the music after a moment or two. They proceeded from the neighborhood of their business rival. How they might sound directly at their source it was difficult to surmise. Arising from the hollow in which the National was located, they lacked all acoustic qualities, like a band playing into a funnel. “Twenty-seven minutes and a half after six,” declared Pep abruptly. “All right,” nodded Jolly, arising from his seat. “It’s not dark yet, but I suppose we will have to shoot on the lights.” The quartette started from the rear room in company, but Pep was making for the front entrance as soon as Jolly moved towards the piano. He came to a dead halt with a blank face as there sounded out, directly in front of the place, a sharp, clear bugle call. “Ahem!” observed Ben Jolly, with significant emphasis. Frank and Randy stood stock still. They were both surprised and entranced, for after that rollicking bugle call there rang out a sweet home melody. Whoever was creating those gentle yet clear and expressive notes was a master of the cornet. The hour, the scene were in harmony with the liquid notes that gushed forth like golden beads dropped into a crystal dish. The wondering Pep, as if in a spell, moved noiselessly down the aisle and looked out through a window. Standing at the extreme inner edge of the walk was the cornetist. He wore a neat military costume. His close bearded face made Pep think of photographs he had seen of the leader of a noted military band. From every direction the crowds were gathering. They blocked the walk and the beach beyond it. A hush showed the appreciation of this enchanted audience until the tune was finished. Then the air was filled with acclamations. “Friend of mine--it’s all right. Thought I’d sort of offset that brass band down at the National,” sang out Ben Jolly at the piano, and Pep now knew what his reticent friend had “up his sleeve.” “All ready--here she goes!” A chorus of “Ah’s!” and “Oh’s!” swelled forth as the electric sign and then the whole front of Wonderland burst into a glow of electric radiance. Frank was into the sheet iron booth in a jiffy. Jolly sat prim and precise at the piano. Randy was in place in the little ticket office just as Pep threw open the front doors.