Fully an hour passed, and one of the lithographers from the rival
car went aboard with the information that they were unable to get
a piece of paper in any window in town thus far.
"Why not?" demanded Tripp.
"They say their windows are already contracted for," was
the answer.
"Contracted for?"
"Yes."
"By whom?"
"I don't know. That's all the information we can get."
"Seen any other showmen about town this morning?"
"No; not any that I know, nor any with paper and brush under
his arm."
"H-m-m-m," mused the showman. "That's queer. It can't be that
the young man across the way has got the start of us. No; that
is not possible. He is too green for that. Have his men gone
out on the country routes yet, or are they still asleep?"
"I don't know. Nobody has seen a living soul around that car
this morning, so far as I know."
"I'll go over town and do a little squaring on my own hook.
I'll soon find out who has been heading us off, if anyone has."
The manager hurried off with his assistant, but even he was
unable to get any information.
He was baffled and perplexed. He did not understand it.
Tactics entirely new had been sprung on him. He was an expert
in the old methods of the game, but these were different.
In the meantime, Phil Forrest, the young advance agent, sat
calmly in his stateroom, now and then receiving a report from
Teddy Tucker who sauntered in under cover of a string of freight
cars on the opposite side, then slipped out again.
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