Breakfast had just been announced by Jolly and as usual all were hustling about to put in an appearance for the famous home-cooked meal. “We mustn’t complain if we have a day or two of showery weather, Pep,” spoke Frank. “It means poor shows, though,” lamented Randy. “We can stand that,” replied Frank. “I think we have been more than fortunate.” “I should say so,” remarked Jolly--“six shows a day and the house a clear average of three-fourths filled.” “How are our friends down at the National doing, Pep?” inquired Vincent. “Oh, so, so,” was the careless reply. “They get their quota from the Midway crowd, which we don’t want. My friend who works for them says they let things go half right, quarrel among themselves, and a few nights ago Peter Carrington had a crowd of his boy friends in a private box smoking cigarettes while the films were running. Peter doesn’t speak to me now when we meet.” “I thought the building was coming down one time last night,” spoke Jolly. “There was damage done somewhere, for I heard a terrific crash a little after midnight.” “There won’t be many bathers to-day,” said Vincent, glancing out at the breakers on the beach. Pep finished his breakfast and went out to the front of the building to take a look at things. Just after he had opened the front doors his voice rang excitedly through the playhouse. “Frank--Randy--all of you. Come here, quick!” Then as his friends trooped forward obedient to his call he burst out: “It’s a blazing shame!” “What is, Pep?” inquired Frank. “Look for yourself.” “Oh, say! who did that?” shouted Randy. He and the others stood staring in dismay at the walk, that was littered with glass, and then at the wreck of the electric sign overhead, which had cost them so much money and of which they had been so proud. All that was left of it was “W--O--L--A--N--D” and woeful, indeed, the dilapidated sign looked. Broken bulbs and jagged ends of wires trailed over its face. Two bricks lay at the edge of the walk and the end of a third protruded from the bottom of the sign. Randy was nearly crying. Frank looked pretty serious. Pep’s eyes were flashing, but he maintained a grim silence as he went over to the edge of the walk and picked up one of the bricks. “That was your ‘great guns’ you heard last night,” observed Pep looking fighting mad. “Those bricks were thrown purposely to smash our sign. Why--and who by?” There was not one in the group who could not have voiced a justifiable suspicion, yet all were silent. “I think I know where that brick came from,” proceeded Pep, trying to keep calm, but really boiling over with wrath. “I’m going to find out.” Pep tarried not to discuss or explain. The others stared after him as he marched down the boardwalk in his headstrong way. Pep had in mind a little heap of bricks he had seen two days before. They were made of terra cotta, red in color and one side glazed.