THE RAGE OF RALPH BRYTON.
A good many people in New Haven were surprised next morning when they
read the bills announcing the production of an apparently decent play at
the old Concert Hall. Some of the older inhabitants harked back to the
good old days, when that was the only theatre in town, and were thereby
moved to read the bill to the very end, thus becoming interested in the
contest between the young actor-manager and the trust, which was exactly
what Demarest wanted.
John Lawford, the billposter, was more than surprised. He was puzzled,
perplexed, and furiously angry. He saw at once that Demarest had stolen
a march on him, and he did his best to nullify the advantage gained, by
covering the boards as swiftly as possible with the announcements of the
Arcadian production. Although he had made a verbal agreement with the
young actor to give his paper space, he was able to slide out of it
because there had been no written contract, and he dared not disobey the
emphatic commands of Ralph Bryton, on whom his bread and butter
depended.
But all this took time. It was nearly noon before he had obliterated the
greater part of the work of the Yale students last night, and a good
many people had seen the original bills, and read them through. Their
interest was only stimulated when they noticed them, one by one, being
covered by the announcements of the trust. It seemed to bear out
Demarest’s statement that he was being hounded by the syndicate men, and
a good many citizens decided on the spot to attend the performance of
“Jarvis of Yale,” and see what it was like.
While Lawford was working so hard, Austin Demarest was putting in some
equally effective licks. Bright and early he started out with two boys
and a quantity of lithographing, his regular paper, and in a very short
time had obtained points of vantage in all the important shop windows,
for which he paid on the spot, and about eleven he returned to the hotel
empty-handed, but with a feeling of intense satisfaction at having
circumvented Ralph Bryton effectually.
He had scarcely entered the lobby before his eyes fell upon that
gentleman himself, and he saw at once that the representative of the
trust was not in the best sort of humor. He was striding up and down the
floor, pulling his heavy mustache, and scowling fiercely under beetling
brows.
He was a man of about forty, heavily built, and a little inclined toward
corpulency. His features were good, but his expression was domineering,
as if he were accustomed to have his own way, and would fly into a
passion when thwarted.
He had slept late that morning, secure in the consciousness that he had
done a good day’s work, and effectually prevented the man he hated from
having any sort of a success in New Haven, even if he once secured a
foothold.
After a leisurely breakfast, he took a stroll down the street, and his
astonishment and anger can better be imagined than described when his
eyes fell upon the announcement which graced the board in front of the
Arcadian Theatre. Lawford had not yet reached that part of the city.
Bryton stormed and raged, and even went so far as to try and tear the
paper off, but the paste had been well mixed, and his efforts were in
vain.
Fairly foaming at the mouth, he dashed back to the hotel, and tried to
get Lawford on the telephone, but no one answered him. He had just come
away from the booth after a second attempt when his eyes fell upon the
smiling face of Austin Demarest, and he promptly crossed the lobby, and
confronted the young actor.
“You young blackguard!” he frothed. “How dare you put up posters in
front of my theatre? How dare you use any of the boards which I control
for your rotten paper?”
Demarest’s eyes narrowed.
“Just keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Bryton,” he said coldly. “I
suppose it is rather difficult for you to behave like a gentleman, but a
little more of such talk as that, and I’ll have to hand you something.”
The older man glared at his antagonist, and his face grew purple, but he
managed to keep a grip on his temper, for he realized that his anger had
carried him farther than he had meant.
“You’ve no right to use the boards in this city, which I control,” he
said, in a calmer tone.
“I wasn’t aware that you controlled any of them,” Demarest returned
coolly. “I labored under the impression that they were the property of
John Lawford, with whom I made arrangements early yesterday afternoon to
post my paper.”
Bryton gasped.
“But I told him not——” he began, and then stopped abruptly.
“Exactly,” put in the actor. “You ordered him to throw me down after he
had explicitly agreed to do my work. That’s like you, Bryton. You can’t
blame me for taking things into my own hands.”
Bryton’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Much good it will do you!” he snapped. “By noon your stuff will be
covered.”
“Just the same, my purpose will have been accomplished,” Demarest smiled
tauntingly. “People will have all morning to see the announcements, and
then they will wonder why your paper is plastered over them. I shall
take care that they find out. I have a friend or two on the New Haven
press. You slipped up on the shop windows, didn’t you?”
His voice held a note of malicious satisfaction. The older man gave a
sudden start.
“Lawford was to go around after——”
“Too late,” the actor returned quickly. “I have the best locations
cinched. They’re paid for, and an agreement signed. If any of them try
to take out my lithographs, or cover them up with yours, I’ll sue for
breach of contract.”
If looks could kill, Demarest would have been slain on the spot by the
ferocious glare from the older man’s eyes. Bryton knew that he had
suffered a serious check, for the window advertising had always been
considered of equal or greater importance than the billboards.
He realized, however, that he could accomplish nothing by going off his
head, so he made a great effort, and managed to get control of his
temper.
“After all, I don’t know why I’m going to all this trouble,” he said
sarcastically. “You’re a fool if you think anybody will go to the
Concert Hall. Why, the place is rotten!”
“That’s my business,” Demarest retorted. “I rather think if you drop in
to the opening Thursday night you’ll be surprised. But I really must
tear myself away. This has been a great pleasure, and I trust I shall
see you again.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel, and started toward
the door. The next minute he stopped and looked back.
“Can’t I give you a couple of seats for Thursday?” he smiled. “I should
be delighted to have your critical opinion of the performance.”
“Bah!” snarled Bryton, his face purpling dangerously.
The young actor shrugged his shoulders.
“Too bad you’re feeling that way this morning,” he said airily. “You
really ought to take something—a bromo seltzer might do.”
Bryton gazed loweringly after the graceful figure of the young man as he
disappeared through the door.
“I’ll get you yet, my young cockerel!” he muttered fiercely. “You think
you’ve got the best of Ralph Bryton, but you’re mistaken. You won’t crow
so loud before I’m through with you.”
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