THE POWER OF PERSUASION.
It seemed as if this final catastrophe was the last straw which broke
the camel’s back. Austin Demarest had held out bravely against the many
blows which fickle fortune had showered upon him. He had deliberately
placed himself in opposition to a great power, and, with smiling face
and never-failing courage, had resolutely held out against their
machinations.
They had shut the doors of most reputable theatres against him, and he
had circumvented them. They had threatened members of the theatrical
profession with their displeasure if any of them agreed to play for
Demarest, but in spite of that, the young actor had gathered together a
very fair company, many of whom had signed with him knowing full well
that they were spoiling their chances with the syndicate, but trusting
to the talented, magnetic young actor-manager to pull things through.
The leading lady, Marion Gray, had refused an offer from Buffer and Lane
of twice the money Demarest was able to give her, but it was rumored
that she was so attached to the latter that she would have played for
him without any salary at all. Demarest himself seemed to be the only
one of the company who had not observed the significant signs on the
part of the very attractive young lady, and had gone on his way seeming
serenely unconscious of the state of affairs.
But now this last blow had utterly unnerved him. It was so totally
unexpected and had come at a time when he had at last begun to see light
through the dark clouds, that it was no wonder he was discouraged. There
seemed to be no way by which he could come out ahead this time, and he
sat there in the big leather chair, a feeling of hopeless failure in his
heart.
Dick Merriwell was not so easily downed. He snatched out his watch and,
with a swift glance at it, sprang to his feet.
“Come on, old fellow,” he said incisively. “We haven’t got a minute to
lose.”
Demarest stood up slowly, instinctively. His eyes were puzzled.
“What——” he began.
Dick caught him by the arm and drew him toward the door.
“Hustle!” he cried. “Don’t stop to argue!”
“But where——”
“The printer’s!” broke in Merriwell. “We’ve got to get those bills done
to-night!”
By this time they were outside the hotel and hurrying down the street.
Though he did not quite see what his new friend had in mind, Demarest
was unconsciously heartened by the Yale man’s decisive manner, and hope
began to dawn again in his breast.
“You can’t give up now,” urged Merriwell, as they dodged around a corner
and went down the side street almost at a run. “You’ve got to beat them.
You’ve got your regular paper ready. We must get this special work
printed and placed before morning. It’s the only way. It’s simply got to
be done!”
“But how can you?” objected the actor. “The printers won’t stay over
hours. Lawford won’t put them up in the dark.”
“We can try,” Dick ripped out. “If he won’t put them up, somebody else
can. It’s a question of your whole future; you can’t lay down now.”
Little by little, under the dominating influence of Merriwell’s
personality, Demarest’s courage returned and his face brightened. They
reached the printing house just as the whistle blew and, dashing
upstairs, encountered a swarm of men hurrying down.
“Stop a minute, fellows, will you?” Dick said quickly.
The men paused, a wondering throng, on the stairs. They could see
Merriwell’s face but dimly in the light from the single flaring gas jet.
“That order for the bills of the ‘Jarvis of Yale’ production at the
Concert Hall which was brought in this afternoon,” he said rapidly but
distinctly. “Have they been started yet?”
There was a moment’s pause, and then a voice from the back of the crowd
growled:
“Ain’t mor’n half set up.”
“They’ve got to be done by midnight,” Merriwell went on swiftly. “It’s a
matter of life and death to my friend, here, boys. He’s simply got to
have them then, or he goes under. Won’t enough of your fellows stay
to-night to get them out? Every one who helps us out will get a
ten-dollar bill.”
“The day’s work is done,” grumbled one man. “I ain’t goin’ ter work no
overtime.”
“Me neither,” growled another.
“Why in thunder didn’t yer bring ’em in this morning, if yer wanted ’em
in such a rush?” snapped a third.
“I wants me supper.”
There was a restless, forward movement of the crowd, eager to be gone,
and Demarest groaned softly. In that single instant he saw his well-laid
plans crumbling into nothingness, his fortune swept away, himself
ruined. Then Merriwell began to speak again.
“Just a minute, boys, till I tell you a little more,” he said quickly.
“My friend is an actor who has got the theatrical trust down on him. He
wanted to bring out his play in New Haven, at the Arcadian. They
wouldn’t let him have that theatre—nor any other in town. They shut him
out, but they forgot the old Concert Hall. That’s why the show is coming
off there. And now the trust is going to put a play on at the Arcadian
Friday night which is as near my friend’s play as they can make it. They
think they’ll get ahead of him and make him draw a frost. If these bills
aren’t up before daybreak that’s what will happen. Won’t you fellow
change your minds and help us?”
He had chosen his argument skillfully. The mention of a trust to the
average workingman is like a red flag to a bull. They hated the thought
of these monstrous creations of modern commerce, and perhaps there was
reason for that hate. At any rate, the prospect of foiling a great
combination of capital was the only thing which could possibly have
induced those printers to work overtime that night, and even at that
their consent was rather grudging.
“Well, if yer puts it that way,” one said hesitatingly. “I s’pose I kin
stay. How about it, Bill?”
“I’ll stay if you will.”
“Say, mister,” piped up a small boy, one of the devils, “who are you,
anyhow?”
“Dick Merriwell,” the Yale man answered.
“Golly!” exclaimed the youngster, open-mouthed. “The twirler! What d’yer
think of dat, Pete?”
He grinned engagingly at Merriwell.
“I’ll help yer out, Dick,” he said impudently.
“Good boy, kid,” the Yale man laughed. “You’re the stuff, all right.”
That seemed to be the turning point. Many of the men knew Merriwell, who
was a popular idol among all classes of baseball fans, and the prospect
of doing him a good turn, and at the same time thwarting a trust, so
appealed to the men that the majority of them turned about and went back
to the printing rooms.
The foreman was won over without a great deal of trouble. He was a
thrifty Scotchman, and the prospect of the twenty dollars which Dick
promised him considerably more than overbalanced the inconvenience of
going without his supper and curtailing his night’s rest.
Consequently, when Dick and the young actor left the place half an hour
later, the men were all busy setting up the bills, which would be ready
for the presses in very short order.
The two stopped at a near-by restaurant and ordered a good supply of
sandwiches and coffee sent up to the printers, and then hustled off to
find Lawford, the billposter.
“By Jove, old fellow!” Demarest said, as they turned into Chapel Street
again and walked swiftly past the green. “You certainly did that trick
to perfection. I shall be your debtor all my life for having saved the
situation.”
“We’re not out of the wood yet, by a long shot,” Merriwell returned. “I
have a notion that this Lawford will be more of a proposition to bring
around. By this time he must have the bills of the Arcadian play, and
your friend Bryton has learned about your leasing the Concert Hall. He’s
probably paid Lawford well for running his bills in ahead of yours.”
“I’m afraid so,” Demarest agreed. “But it’s the limit, when I made the
bargain with him first.”
“Still, Lawford gets all of his business from the trust, and he can’t
afford to have them down on him,” Dick said. “However, I think we can
manage it some way.”
Reaching the billposter’s place of business, they found that the
proprietor had gone, leaving one of his men to shut up the place.
“You don’t know where he can be found, then?” Dick questioned.
The fellow shook his head.
“He didn’t say. Likely he’s home, though.”
“Where does he live?” Merriwell asked.
“Down to West Haven.”
Dick considered a moment. That was a good ways off, and it was extremely
questionable whether the results of a trip down there would repay the
effort. He had a pretty accurate notion that the billposter had been
primed by Ralph Bryton. As he hesitated, he looked swiftly about the
office, and his eyes lit up suddenly as they fell upon the great piles
of paper stacked in one corner. On the top sheet he caught a glimpse of
the words, “Fenwick, of Yale.”
That was enough. Bryton had been here, and it would be quite useless to
approach Lawford.
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