Chapter XIII: A Stroke of Luck

"Something has got to be done," said the young advance agent.

"Everything possible has been done," returned the manager, pettishly. "The amount of the thing is that we have struck an unlucky night, and there's no help for it."

"Maybe there is," said Al, quietly. "I mean to have a big house to-morrow night somehow or other."

The manager laughed sarcastically.

"I've heard beginners like you talk before," he said. "You think you are going to set the river on fire, but the river is not inflammable. I admire your nerve. I've heard how you drummed up business in Boomville, and you did well. But you can't do that sort of thing all the time. My friend, Wattles, wrote and told me that you would work things so that the house would be full when his company played, but he made a mistake that time."

"Did Mr. Wattles say that?" cried Al.

"He did; and I was surprised at it, for Wattles is not usually a very sanguine man."

"If he said it, I'll do it," announced the boy.

Again his companion laughed.

"There's nothing like youthful enthusiasm," he said, "and I acknowledge that it cuts lots of ice at times--but not every time. You might as well try to square the circle as to get a crowd here to-morrow evening. It can't be done."

"We'll see," responded Al, with the most confident air he could assume.

The task before him was a hard one, apparently an impossible one, but he resolved that he would try to accomplish it.

"Sail ahead, and do it if you can," said the manager, with something very much like a sneer. "I shall watch your methods with interest."

"It's a pity," said Al, "that you have only one morning paper here. Now if----"

"Oh," interrupted his companion, yawning, "we'll have another to-morrow morning."

"How is that?"

"A young dude named Marcus, with more money than brains--and not very much of either, by the way--is to issue the first number of a new daily to-morrow morning. He is going to call it the _Bugle_, I believe."

"It being the first issue," suggested Al, "it is likely to have a good sale. Wouldn't it be a good scheme to spend a little extra in advertising in it?"

"My lad," said the manager, wearily, "your ideas are primitive in the extreme. I have given them my usual size ad., and even if I wanted any more space--which I don't--I couldn't get it, for the paper is about all made up now. Oh, we can't do anything against the circus, and that settles that matter."

It did not settle the matter with Al, however. He returned to his hotel, and spent what was left of the afternoon in trying to devise some plan to arouse public interest in the performance of the New York Comedy Company.

He worked at the problem until his head ached, but the harder he thought the farther he seemed to be from a solution.

In the evening he went down to the restaurant connected with the hotel, quite discouraged.

There was no one in the room when he entered; but a few minutes later two men, both of them evidently very much excited, came in and seated themselves near him.

After a glance at the boy and a hurried order to the waiter, they resumed a conversation in which they had been engaged when they entered.

Al could not help overhearing nearly every word they said, for in their excitement they spoke louder than they thought.

"I tell you, Marcus," he heard one of the men say, "it's a bad knockout."

Marcus! Al remembered that this was the name of the proprietor of the new paper. He was, as the manager had said, a rather dudish-looking young fellow, but his face was by no means indicative of a lack of brains.

"The worst of it is," added Mr. Marcus, "that the _Banner_ people will have the grand laugh on us. They have been poking fun at the 'amateur daily,' as they call it, ever since the _Bugle_ was announced; now they will go for us."

Al was now interested; for the time he forgot his own worries. What could the trouble be in the office of the new paper?

"They'll have a good chance," said Mr. Marcus' friend. "Really, my dear sir, I can't see how you could have made such a break. The idea of accepting a full-page ad. for 'Dr. Gurgles' Metallic Liver Pads,' only to find that there is no such thing on the market, and that you have been made the victim of a practical joker! I wish I had had charge of the business end of the thing, this would not have happened."

"I dare say not, but don't reproach me, for I'm too much broken up to stand it. The question is, how are we going to fill up that page? I've been boasting, right and left, about the phenomenal amount of bona-fide ads. the first number of the _Bugle_ would contain, and now we are a full page short. And I've told a number of people that we were to have a page ad. from a well-known concern--something the _Banner_ never had."

"Have you told anyone what the concern was?"

"No."

"Then perhaps you could get some firm in town to take the page."

"I'd let 'em have it at any price. But, no, it wouldn't do; I should have to own up how I had been victimized. Besides, it's too late now, anyhow. Why, nearly the whole paper is in type, and one side is printed."

"Well, what are you going to do with that page?"

"I give it up."

Al rose from his seat and approached the table where the two gentlemen were seated.

"Perhaps I can help out, sir," he said.

Mr. Marcus started from his chair, his face flushed with anger.

"You've been listening, boy!" he exclaimed.

"I have; I couldn't very well help it, for you spoke in a loud tone."

"That's so, Marcus," added the other gentleman. "A public restaurant is not just the place to talk over such a matter."

"Well," said Marcus, glaring at Al, "I suppose you mean to go and tell everyone in town what you have heard?"

"I don't know anyone in town, and if I did I shouldn't repeat a word. As I just said, I think I can help you out."

"You! How?"

"You said you'd let that page go at any price?"

"I did."

"Perhaps I will take it. I couldn't afford to do anything like regular rates, but perhaps by helping you out I can get a lot of advertising almost free. I tell you frankly that is my object, and I give you my word that no one shall know anything about the transaction."

Mr. Marcus and his companion stared at Al in amazement.

"Well," said the former, "you are a queer youngster. Who the mischief are you--another practical joker?"

"No. I am Allen Allston, advance agent of Wattles' New York Comedy Company, which plays here to-morrow night."

"A lad like you occupying a position like that?" exclaimed Mr. Marcus.

"Just so, sir. Now, what will you let us have that page for?"

"Perhaps your employer would repudiate the bill."

"I'll pay it myself, right here and now."

"I'll take you up. You can have the page for one hundred dollars. When can I have the copy?"

"Not at all at that price," replied Al, coolly. "The page wouldn't be worth that much to us. I'll give you fifty dollars, cash now, and the copy in an hour or less."

After a moment's hesitation, the proprietor of the _Bugle_ said:

"Done! Give me the fifty dollars, and I'll give you a receipt for four hundred. But mind, mum's the word about this deal."

"You may depend upon me, sir."

"But," asked Mr. Marcus, "how are you going to have a full page of copy ready in an hour?"

"I'll get it ready," replied Al. "Your foreman will have it on time."

He handed the publisher the fifty dollars, and received a receipt for four hundred.

"Well," said Mr. Marcus, "you have a head for business, and no mistake."

"I hope so," said Al, modestly; "but this transaction does not prove it."

"I think it does."

"My overhearing your conversation was only blind luck."

"Yes; but many a man would not have been smart and quick enough to take advantage of it. The successful business man is he who seizes upon the lucky accidents that others pass by, and turns them to his own advantage. You'll get along, my boy."