AUSTIN DEMAREST, ACTOR.
As Dick settled down on one side of the cozy little table near one of
the windows and unfolded his napkin he felt a pleasant glow of
satisfaction stealing over him. Short as was their acquaintance, he
already felt a distinct liking for the man opposite him, whose handsome
face still impressed him with the odd sensation of looking into a mirror
and seeing his own countenance reflected there.
The fellow was very evidently a gentleman by birth and breeding. That
had been plain from the first moment of their unconventional meeting.
His manners were unexceptionable, and he had a certain air of polished
refinement which was manifest to Merriwell’s keen perception in a dozen
unobtrusive ways.
But more than all else the Yale man was attracted by the other’s manner
of talking. Whimsical, half bantering, almost careless, there was yet
about it an undercurrent of seriousness, which gave the barest hint of
the real man beneath that disguising mask and made Dick eager for a more
thorough knowledge of the character which he felt would prove more
interesting by far than that of the majority of men.
Demarest picked up the card and ordered luncheon with the swiftness and
taste of a connoisseur. He evidently had the rare art of selecting an
attractive meal without spending a half hour at it. Then, folding his
arms loosely, he leaned forward.
“Let’s begin at the beginning,” he said with twinkling eyes. “That
sounds a little unnecessary, I know, but so few people really do begin a
story where they ought. Probably you’ve noticed it, though. For
instance, I am strongly tempted to plunge headfirst into the maelstrom
of my troubles, and it is only by a strong effort of will that I bring
myself to begin where I ought to lead you gradually thence to a
consideration of the worst.”
While he was talking, Dick became conscious of the remarkable beauty and
purity of his voice. His tones were rather low, and he spoke with just a
hint of the fascinating Southern drawl; but every syllable was clear and
distinct, and now and then there was a sudden raising or lowering of the
pitch which had a distinctly dramatic effect. Merriwell found himself
thinking what an admirable actor the man would make, if his histrionic
ability only matched his voice. He was consequently almost startled when
Demarest went on:
“Know, kind second self, that I am an actor. From my earliest days I
longed to tread the magic boards and pour out my soul to vast applauding
audiences through the medium of our immortal dramatists. At the age of
twelve I had learned the parts of _Hamlet_ and _Brutus_. Can you fancy
it? Two years later I had built a puppet stage in the attic of our
country home and organized a company of which I was, of course, the
star. In times of need and scarcity of talent, I have been known to play
several parts in one performance. The admission to those matchless
performances was, I recollect, a penny. You will perceive that those
were the good old days before the trust came upon us and before the
régime of the ubiquitous ticket speculator.”
Dick smiled appreciatively. There was something fascinating in the
fellow’s whimsical, airy manner.
“But why linger on those far-away times?” Demarest went on quickly. “I
only touch upon them that you may see beyond peradventure that I was
destined for the stage. Sad to say, my esteemed family thought
otherwise. What was cute and cunning in a child became mad folly—in
their estimation—when I reached the age of manhood and still persisted
in my determination. I haunted the theatre, breathing in the
indescribable atmosphere of the place as if it were the nectar and
ambrosia of the gods. Then my people became seriously alarmed and packed
me off to Cambridge. At first I was in despair and planned to run away,
but in the end I stuck it out and I have always been thankful. Unknown
to my family, who thought I was following the old-fashioned, stereotyped
course, I specialized in elocution, English literature, and the modern
languages, which have been of inestimable service to me ever since.”
He paused, as the waiter appeared with the first course and deftly
placed it before the two men. Dick was much interested in the recital.
“Of course you persisted in your determination to go on the stage,” he
said quickly. “I imagine you had a rather strenuous time after you
graduated.”
Demarest sighed and made an expressive gesture with his shapely, brown
hands.
“Precisely,” he returned. “Over that let us draw a veil. I won out in
the end, but it was only by a display of the utmost firmness. My father
called it pigheadedness. To this day they are not reconciled, though I
fancy they are beginning to be resigned.
“I took a course in the best dramatic school in New York, and, when I
left that, got a minor position in the company of one of our leading
actor dramatists. It was the merest trifle. I think I had barely half a
dozen lines, but I was rejoiced, for it was a foothold. I had reached
the bottom rung of the ladder up which I meant to climb to the very top.
I worked hard. Before the company left New York I had mastered half a
dozen rôles and was letter-perfect. I had a fancy that I could not
improve on several of them, but my chance did not come until we were
playing in Chicago, where the leading juvenile was suddenly seized with
appendicitis. He had no understudy—happily for me. I went at once to Mr.
Manton and boldly asked for the part. To my astonishment, almost without
word, he agreed to try me out at a rehearsal. I found out afterward that
he had been keeping an eye on me ever since I entered the company. He
was the best friend I ever had.”
He stopped, took a few sips of his bouillon, and leaned back in his
chair.
“You made good?” Dick questioned eagerly. “But of course you must have.”
“Thanks to Mr. Manton, I did,” returned Demarest. “He took infinite
pains with me, as he always did with any one he thought worth the
trouble. I kept that part for the remainder of the season, and the next
fall I had one almost as good, though of a totally different sort. Then
came my patron’s sudden death. It was a terrible blow to me, quite apart
from the fact that I was thrown out of a job; for I had grown to be
amazingly fond of him. But I had little time for repining. I had to find
something to do and it did not prove to be so easy as I had supposed. It
was then that I had my first experience with the so-called theatrical
trust, the members of which control many of the companies and theatres,
in this country.
“At last I landed a job, but it was a good deal of a come-down both in
salary and importance. But even under their auspices I kept on going
slowly upward until I reached a point which would have contented most
men. Perhaps it should have contented me, but I knew I hadn’t reached
the very top, and that I was determined to do, or perish in the attempt.
“About that time—which was last fall, to be explicit—I suddenly decided
to write a play. The germ had been in my mind for a long period, but I
lacked the time to follow it out. Happily the company disbanded earlier
than usual last spring, and I at once set to work on my pet idea. I
succeeded even better than I had hoped, for the play was good stuff and
the leading part a crackajack.”
He paused and smiled at Merriwell.
“This is the point where you step upon the stage,” he went on. “It’s
taken a long time to get there, hasn’t it?”
Dick’s face was full of puzzled curiosity.
“You are the hero of the play,” Demarest explained, with twinkling eyes.
“I?” gasped the Yale man. “I don’t understand.”
The actor pushed aside his salad and rested one arm lightly on the
table.
“It’s this way,” he said, in his low, musical voice. “Though I had never
met you, I had heard a lot about you from mutual friends and had seen
you more than once on the diamond and gridiron. Consequently, when I
decided that the play should be one of college life with the scene laid
in New Haven, I felt that you would make an admirable character for the
leading man. Of course, I ran you in under a different name, but I took
the liberty of using a good many of your characteristics, and while I
wrote I had you constantly in mind. I hope you don’t object, for it was
rather cheeky.”
Merriwell laughed.
“Why, no, I don’t mind; but I’m afraid you’ve been stung. There’s
nothing of the hero about me.”
“Oh, modesty, thou rare and precious quality!” murmured Demarest. “I’ve
made a hero of you, then, against your will. When you’ve read the play
you will see yourself in a different light. But I suppose by this time
you, are wondering where my troubles come in.”
“A little,” Dick confessed. “So far your career seems to have been an
unqualified success.”
“Listen, and you shall hear the dire story. Having the play, it never
occurred to me that I could fail to find an opening. Plenty of actors
with no more ability than I have been advanced to stellar rôles. That
sounds conceited, but it isn’t. It’s a fact. But when I approached my
managers, Buffer and Lane, with the proposition, they turned me down.
Said the play was all right and wanted to buy it, but wouldn’t give me
the leading part. They wanted that for one of their pets. Of course, I
refused to let them have it and went to another firm, who were not
supposedly connected with Buffer and Lane.
“It was the same story there. Nothing doing for me. I tried still
another man with the same result, and then I got mad. If they wouldn’t
bring me out I’d produce the play myself. I knew it would make a hit if
it got a chance, and I had lately received a legacy from my grandmother,
which was enough to cover all initial expenses of the production. So I
went blithely on my way, had the scenery done, engaged the company, got
the costumes made. I went to one of the independent managers in New York
and got him to promise to put me on at his theatre providing the play
tried out successfully. And he insisted that the opening performance
should be given in New Haven. Of course, he was right. College men are
the best critics in the world, and if a play, especially of this sort,
succeeds here, it will go anywhere.”
Dick nodded understandingly.
“Of course,” he agreed quickly. “What’s your trouble, then? Why don’t
you produce it at one of the small theatres?”
Demarest shrugged his shoulders.
“Simply because Buffer and Lane object, and the trust, booking Buffer
and Lane’s companies, has lent an acquiescent ear. They absolutely
refuse to give me a single date at either place. They say every night is
booked for the remainder of the season.”
“What nonsense!” Merriwell exclaimed. “Surely there must be some open
nights.”
“Of course there are,” Demarest returned quickly. “But not for yours
truly. Don’t you see their game? If they can prevent my appearing in New
Haven, they figure that I won’t get a show anywhere, and then they
probably imagine that I’ll crawl and let them have the play.”
Dick’s face flushed and his eyes flashed angrily.
“What a lot of sharks they must be!” he exclaimed. “By Jove! I wish you
could find some place they don’t control and beat them out at their own
game.”
“You can’t wish it any more fervently than I do,” Demarest returned
seriously.
“Have you tried the Strand?” Merriwell asked presently.
The actor nodded.
“Yes, and was politely but firmly turned down.”
For a few minutes there was silence. Demarest toyed with his ice, while
Merriwell gazed thoughtfully at the tablecloth. Suddenly he raised his
head and his eyes brightened.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed eagerly. “The old Concert Hall. I’ll bet
none of the New York managers control that!”
Demarest looked dubious.
“The Concert Hall!” he echoed. “But that’s got a—a—well, a reputation,
hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has,” Dick admitted, “but I don’t see why that should stand in
your way. If it was made clear that you were unable to bring out a play
at any of the other houses, I don’t think people would stay away on
account of the reputation of that house. Certainly the fellows wouldn’t.
They go to see everything in the nature of college plays which comes to
town. I admit that, more often than not, they go with the idea of
picking flaws in the piece, but if it’s what you say it is, it ought to
succeed. At any rate, you’d have your audience, and it would be up to
you to do the rest.”
Demarest’s eyes brightened and he nodded emphatically.
“You can trust me for that,” he said decidedly. “All I want is the
audience. The play’s all right. Buffer and Lane would never have made an
offer for it if it hadn’t been pretty good. I don’t know but that idea
of yours will prove a life saver, Merriwell. I was just about at my
wit’s end, but you’ve put new heart into me.”
Summoning the waiter, he paid the check, and they walked out to the
lobby.
“I believe I’ll go down there right away,” Demarest said, after a
moment’s consideration. “It’s the only chance left, and I have got to
decide one way or another at once. It isn’t fair for me to keep the
company on a string any longer if there’s not going to be an opportunity
of opening here. Won’t you come along with me? You’ve started the thing
going, and it’s only fair to see me through.”
“Of course I will,” Dick said quickly. “I’m so keen about it, I don’t
want to miss a single trick.”
Getting into their coats, they hurried out of the hotel and five minutes
later had reached the old Concert Hall. It was a house of good size and
in its prime had been the scene of many well-known productions, but for
years having been given over to vaudeville, moving pictures, and shows
of a certain grade, it was in a wretched state of dinginess.
Demarest was almost discouraged as he stood in the centre of the
orchestra and looked about him. The place seemed utterly impossible, but
presently his trained eye took in the various good points, which
included an ample stage, though, at present, it was cluttered with odds
and ends and backed with faded, crude, fearfully painted scenery.
“Pretty bad, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I can’t imagine a high-grade
audience consenting to spend three hours here.”
“All the same,” Dick said quickly, “a little work will make a wonderful
improvement. How’s the stage? Is it big enough?”
“Plenty. My sets will fit all right, but I shudder to think what that
drop curtain looks like.”
He smiled wryly as he glanced up at the rolled-up curtain.
“I’ve never seen it, but I should imagine it was the limit,” Merriwell
answered. “Couldn’t it be painted over, or something like that?”
“I suppose so.”
After another searching look around, Demarest led the way through a door
back of the boxes to the stage itself. It certainly was dilapidated, and
the dressing rooms were cramped and bad, but the young actor was at his
wit’s end; and when he left the place an hour later he had engaged the
house for Thursday night of that week, had the signed lease in his
pocket and, more than that, had paid the money down. He had learned to
leave nothing to chance. He had a feeling that the moment the members of
the trust learned of the step he had taken they would do their best to
prevent his opening even at the Concert Hall, and he was determined that
they should not succeed.
That afternoon was a busy one. Before dark, Demarest had engaged an army
of cleaners, scrubwomen, and painters, to report the first thing in the
morning at the theatre. He had gone to the printer’s and ordered special
paper printed in which was stated that, owing to the impossibility of
obtaining a date at any other theatre, Austin Demarest, the talented
young actor who had done such good work in the productions of the late
Richard Manton, and latterly under the management of Buffer and Lane,
was forced to bring out his new drama of college life, “Jarvis of Yale,”
at the Concert Hall, which had been especially renovated and redecorated
for the occasion.
These bills were to be spread broadcast on the boards all over the city
the next morning, and when Demarest reached the hotel toward five
o’clock he had reason to be thoroughly satisfied with the afternoon’s
work.
Merriwell had accompanied him on his rounds through the city. His
interest and enthusiasm were wrought to a high pitch, and his
suggestions on various points had been of much service to the actor.
“It certainly was a lucky moment when I ran you down this morning,”
Demarest said, as they dropped down in some chairs in the lobby. “I was
simply up against a dead wall, and now things seem to be coming around
all right, thanks to your advice and suggestions. I really think we’ll
be able to make a halfway decent place out of the old barn. Of course it
won’t be anything like one of the other houses, but it will be clean.”
“And the best part of it is that you will get ahead of the fellows who
have tried to keep you under,” Dick said quickly. “It makes me hot under
the collar every time I think of the way they’ve tried to keep you down
so that they can get the play for themselves. By the way, old fellow, I
hope you have a copy of it here. I’m no end anxious to read it.”
“And I want you to,” Demarest returned emphatically. “I want your
critical opinion of it. I expect there’s a lot of places in it where you
can suggest improvements. I’ll give you a copy before you go to-night,
and you can read it and let me know what you think of it in the
morning.”
As he spoke, he picked up a newspaper which lay on the next chair and
glanced carelessly down the columns. Suddenly he stiffened and drew a
quick breath.
“Blazes!” he burst out the next instant.
“What’s the matter?” Dick asked quickly.
Demarest’s face was set and a little pale. He was evidently keeping a
grip on himself only by a great effort.
“Look at that!” he cried, extending the paper. “Just look at that, will
you? If that isn’t a put-up job, I’d like to know what you’d call it.”
Dick snatched the paper from his nervous fingers and bent over the page.
As he read the paragraph which the actor had pointed out, his eyes
narrowed and a frown appeared on his forehead.
“Friday—Arcadian Theatre,” he murmured swiftly, “first production on any
stage—John Tennant’s great drama of college life, ‘Fenwick of
Yale’—management Ralph Bryton.”
“Great Scott!” Merriwell exclaimed, looking up swiftly. “They’re trying
to get ahead of you! Trying to cut you out by producing a college play
with almost exactly the same name! What a dirty trick!”
“Read the rest of it!” Demarest exclaimed angrily.
Unable to contain himself, he took the paper from Dick’s hand.
“Listen: ‘Great football scene. Nothing like it ever shown on the
stage.’ My scene, Merriwell, I’ll wager anything! ‘Tremendously strong
third act.’ My third act is the climax of the play! ‘The whole play from
start to finish is so true to life, and so filled with the atmosphere of
a real college town, that the spectator will find it hard to believe he
is not watching a concrete segment taken directly from the life in the
greatest university in America. The management has been fortunate in
securing the services of the following actors and actresses for this
important production.’”
Crumpling the paper in a shapeless mass, Demarest tossed it angrily
aside.
“I’d be willing to take my oath, Merriwell,” he said bitterly, “that
those villains have stolen the very plot of my play; or, if they
haven’t, they’ve got something which follows as close on the lines of
‘Jarvis, of Yale,’ as they dared, and still be within the law. They open
Friday, you see. I did not intend having my first night until next
Monday, until we got the Concert Hall to-day, so they thought they’d get
ahead of me. Great Scott, man! If they put their play on first, there
wouldn’t be a handful come to my opening. It would be the greatest frost
you ever saw.”
“But you’re all right,” Dick said eagerly. “You open Thursday. They’ll
be the ones to get the frost.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Demarest said, in a worried tone. “People
seeing a college play billed at the Arcadian for Friday are not likely
to go to such a hole as the Concert Hall the night before for
practically the same thing. They’ll think that I am the one who is
copying their play, and Ralph Bryton will do his best to have that
impression circulated. He hates me like poison and has been the one more
responsible than any one else for the trust turning me down.”
Suddenly the actor gave a start.
“The paper!” he cried. “I never thought! They’ll get theirs out ahead of
ours, and there won’t be a square foot of boarding left by the time mine
are printed in the morning.”
“But they don’t know about what you’ve done to-day,” Dick objected.
“They don’t know you’ve hired the Concert Hall.
“They’ll find out quick enough when they go to Lawford in the morning,”
Demarest said despairingly. “He’ll tell them about my bills. The printer
won’t have them ready until ten o’clock, and they’ll pay Lawford a bonus
to put theirs up instead of mine. I know them and their tricks. And if
the town isn’t well papered, we might as well give up on the spot.”
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