THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.
Happily his work was so arranged that morning that Dick Merriwell was
through for the day at eleven o’clock. Truth to tell, he might just as
well have absented himself altogether for all the good the lectures did
him, for his mind was so full of the brave struggle his new friend was
making for success that he gave little thought to anything else.
Chancing upon G. Grossman, editor in chief of the _Comet_, he took the
opportunity of giving him a full account of Demarest, his play, and the
trouble he was having to get a hearing. Grossman was much interested,
and promised to write the matter up for the paper, which was exactly
what Dick wanted.
The moment he escaped from the Chemical Lab, he made his way as quickly
as he could to the Concert Hall, which he found a scene of the utmost
bustle and confusion.
An army of scrubwomen were busy in the auditorium and balcony; painters
were at work on the boxes, and in various other parts of the house,
while from the flies came the sound of sawing and hammering.
Demarest seemed to be everywhere at once, directing, advising, joking
with the workmen, and generally hustling things along. His eyes
brightened as he saw Dick.
“The top of the morning to you, Richard!” he cried from the stage.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes. Come up and hear the news.”
Vaulting over the orchestra space, the Yale man leaped lightly to the
stage, and joined his friend.
Demarest narrated with gusto his success in placing the lithographs, and
then went on to tell about the interview with Bryton.
“It was a bitter pill for him to swallow,” he concluded. “He looked as
if he could have knifed me with all the pleasure in the world. He’s
always hated me like poison, you know, ever since I came to Buffer and
Lane.”
“What’s he got against you?” Merriwell asked curiously.
“Search me,” Demarest returned. “The only reason I can think of is that
I played opposite to Marion Gray all last season. He’s stuck on her, you
know, and I suppose he got jealous seeing me make love to her every
night, and twice on Saturday. They said he nearly went off his head when
she refused to sign with them this season, but came to me instead.
Marion’s a jolly good sort, and one of the best leading women in the
country. I was mighty lucky to get her. She’ll be here with all the rest
of the company this afternoon.”
Dick was about to inquire further about Bryton, when the drays appeared
at the stage entrance with the scenery, which had, up to this time, been
left in the cars on a siding.
“I couldn’t rest till I got them safely here,” the actor explained, as
he hurried over to direct the unloading. “It would be just like Bryton
to hire somebody to slash them up, and ruin them. He’d do anything to
prevent this performance, but I think we have him in a hole. I’ve got
the stuff here before he’s had time to think.”
The arrival of the sets added considerably to the general confusion, but
nothing could daunt Demarest. In spite of the fact that he had had
practically no sleep the night before, he was in the highest of spirits
over his success, for which he gave Merriwell every credit, and all
afternoon he did not stir from the theatre, with the result that a
tremendous amount of work was done before the workmen left the place.
The young actor was confident that another two days would see a
remarkable transformation in the dingy edifice.
On account of football practice, Dick could not be with him after three
o’clock, but he stopped at the theatre on his way back from the field,
and found Demarest on the point of leaving.
“Jump in, and I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said, without leaving
his seat at the wheel of his car. “How have things gone?”
“Splendidly!” Demarest exclaimed enthusiastically, as he stepped into
the tonneau. “Another two days will see everything in first-class shape.
The men have caught on to what I want, and are going at it with a will,
for they understand the need for haste. I shan’t have to spend so much
of my time looking after them to-morrow.”
“Company come yet?” Dick inquired.
“Yes; they arrived at four-fifty,” the actor returned. “Haven’t seen
them yet, but they phoned me from the hotel. Yes, thanks to you, I think
we’re going to pull through in fine shape.”
The car drew up before the New Haven House, and the actor leaped out.
“Come in, won’t you?” he urged. “I’d like to have you meet the people.
They’re a nice lot.”
“Guess I’d better wait until to-morrow,” Merriwell said. “We’ve got a
football meeting on hand right after supper, and I’ll have to hustle to
get through in time. I wish you’d let me have that manuscript of the
play you spoke about, though. I want to read it to-night, if I can
manage to stay awake.”
“Of course!” Demarest exclaimed. “I’d forgotten all about it. Just wait
a second while I get it.”
He disappeared into the hotel, returning five minutes later with a
square, flat parcel, which he handed to Dick.
“There. Don’t hesitate to blue pencil it wherever you find any faults,”
he said. “We’ll have the dress rehearsal Thursday morning, and can
introduce any changes then. We’ve rehearsed so much that the people are
all letter-perfect, and there isn’t any need for holding one until
Thursday to give them an idea of this stage. Well, good night. If you
feel as weary as I do, you’ll sleep like the dead. See you to-morrow.”
Merriwell and Buckhart returned his greeting, and he stood for a moment
on the sidewalk, while the car slid on down the street. Dick had a last,
swift glimpse of his handsome, happy face, with the sensitive lips
curved in a smile of perfect friendliness, and then the car rounded a
corner, and the picture vanished.
If the Yale man could have had any conception of the extraordinary
events which were to take place before he set eyes on Austin Demarest
again, he would have been amazed beyond measure.
Luckily, however, he was troubled with no premonitions of evil. He ate
his usual hearty supper with his customary appetite, took part in the
football meeting afterward, and helped decide several important points
relative to the great Yale-Harvard game, which was coming off the
following week. Then he went promptly back to his rooms, and, getting
out the manuscript of “Jarvis of Yale,” settled himself by the table,
and commenced to read.
Here Buckhart found him an hour later, oblivious to everything but the
typewritten sheets before him. His lips were parted, his eyes bright,
and a faint flush of excitement was on his cheeks.
The Texan paused in astonishment.
“By the great horn spoon!” he ejaculated. “What in thunder is the matter
with you, pard?”
“Don’t bother me!” muttered Dick, without raising his eyes. “I’m almost
through.”
“Humph!” grunted Buckhart, dropping into a chair.
Ten minutes later his roommate looked up, with a sigh.
“That’s a dandy play!” he exclaimed, with satisfaction. “A perfect
corker! If that don’t go with the people hereabouts, it’ll be because
they’re a lot of dead ones. The part of _Lance Jarvis_ is a peach, but I
don’t see where I come in.”
“Huh?” questioned the Westerner.
“Oh, nothing,” Dick said hastily.
He did not want even Brad to know that Demarest had taken him as a model
for the hero of the play. Excepting in a few minor points, he could see
no resemblance whatever to himself. The clever young actor had made
_Jarvis_ a wonderfully attractive character, fascinating, wholly
sympathetic, and lovable. It was what actors term a “fat part,” and,
strangely enough, Demarest had succeeded in hitting Merriwell off to a
T, in spite of the fact that he had never actually met the Yale man. But
Dick, keen as he was in sizing up the character of another man, would
never see the resemblance in a hundred years. He was too modest. It
seemed to him the height of conceit to imagine for a moment that he was
anything like this fellow in the play, who had interested and fascinated
him. Consequently he evaded Brad’s question.
“So you think it will go, do you?” the Texan inquired presently.
“I certainly do,” Merriwell answered. “You want to get all the fellows
you can to see it. We must fill the house full for Demarest.”
Buckhart looked a little doubtful.
“It’s got to be pretty darned good, you know, pard,” he said slowly,
“for the boys to keep from guying. You know how many performances have
been broken up that way.”
Dick stood up, and laid the manuscript on the table.
“I know,” he agreed; “but you do your best to fill the theatre, and I’ll
guarantee they won’t waste much time guying. They’ll be too much
interested in the play.”
He yawned. Now that the tension was over, he felt desperately sleepy.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced. “I’d have to prop my eyelids up to
keep them open five minutes longer.”
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