OUT OF A CLEAR SKY.
Dick Merriwell was rather surprised to get a note from Demarest—the
latter had not been able to reach him on the telephone—saying that he
had been unexpectedly called to New York for the day, and asking Dick if
he would not keep an eye on the workmen at the theatre that afternoon,
if possible.
This Merriwell was, of course, very ready to do. He made three trips
down there before going to the field, and found matters progressing as
well as could be expected.
He was amused, and, for an instant, surprised, at being mistaken for
Demarest, but he did not disabuse the men of their error. It would be
just as well for them to think that he was the actor. They would perhaps
work the better while he was looking on. Knowing the work which had to
be done, he was able to straighten out several doubtful matters, and
when he stopped again on his way home from practice, he was more than
pleased at the strides they had made during his absence. The place was
neat as a pin, and only a few more hours’ work was necessary to finish
everything up.
He rather expected that Demarest would call him up that evening, but no
message came. Finally, about half-past eight, he got the hotel on the
wire, and found that the actor had not returned.
“He’ll probably get the early train in the morning,” he said to himself.
“I’ll hear from him then.”
Having no lecture until ten o’clock, he spent the time getting up back
work. He was just slipping into his coat to leave the room when the
telephone bell rang insistently, and, stepping over to the instrument,
he took down the receiver.
“Is this Mr. Merriwell?” came in a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Miss Gray—Miss Marion Gray. I’m dreadfully worried about Mr.
Demarest. Two trains are in, and he hasn’t appeared. The rehearsal is
set for eleven, and I don’t know what to do. I phoned Hemingway’s
office, and they said he hadn’t been there since last night, late. Could
you—would you come over to the hotel for a few minutes? You see, there’s
no one I can get to advise me what to do, and I knew you were Mr.
Demarest’s friend, so I thought——”
The sweet voice trailed off in a questioning silence.
“Certainly, I’ll come, Miss Gray,” Merriwell answered promptly. “Be over
in three minutes.”
Hanging up the receiver, he took up his hat and left the rooms.
“I don’t understand it,” he murmured, as he ran downstairs. “He should
have been here two hours ago. Great Scott. I hope nothing’s happened to
him. If he didn’t show up in time for the performance, everything would
be ruined. But he must show up—he will!”
Flinging open the outer door, he almost fell over a telegraph boy. His
heart gave a sudden throb of fear.
“Merriwell live here?” inquired the boy.
“Yes,” Dick said quickly. “That’s my name. Give it to me.”
He snatched the ominous yellow missive from the other’s hand, and tore
it open in breathless haste. The boy saw his face pale suddenly, and
heard him draw his breath swiftly as his eyes flew rapidly over the
crowded lines on the single sheet. But experience had calloused him to
such sights as these, and, eager to be gone, he drawled out:
“Any answer?”
“No,” Dick said, in a strange voice; “none.”
The boy departed, whistling carelessly, but Merriwell still stood on the
stone steps, gazing blankly at the paper in his hand. Presently he drew
one hand across his forehead in a bewildered manner.
“I can’t!” he breathed. “I could never do it in this world! What is he
thinking of?”
He turned mechanically and went back to his room.
Dropping down in a chair, he spread the telegram out on his knee, and
read it aloud.
“Arrested here on absurd charge. Cannot be tried until
to-morrow. Put-up job to hold me, and ruin performance. You must
take my part, and save play. Otherwise I shall be ruined.
_Jarvis_ is really you. If you can only learn the lines it will
be all right. Business will take care of itself. Do this as you
love me, Richard, and I shall be your debtor forever. Don’t tell
a soul where I am. I can’t afford to have my name smirched, even
by false charge.
AUSTIN.”
For a moment or two Dick sat looking at the paper blankly. Then he
suddenly crumpled it into a ball, and thrust it into his pocket. At
least, that was what he meant to do, but, instead of going into the
pocket, it slipped through the slit in his overcoat, and lodged in the
chair seat, close against one of the arms.
The next moment Merriwell had sprung to his feet, and was striding back
and forth across the room.
The prospect which had at first appalled him was gradually becoming more
reasonable, more possible, as he recovered from the suddenness of the
shock, and swiftly regained his poise and self-control. He had a
remarkably retentive memory, and felt that if he put his mind to it,
excluding every other thing, he might be able to get the part before
night, or possibly even in time for a hasty dress rehearsal that
afternoon.
As for doing anything more than that, he would have to trust to luck. He
had no idea what Demarest’s conception was of the character of _Lance
Jarvis_. All he could do would be to forget that he was acting, and
simply be himself. It was the only way by which the young actor’s
reputation could be saved, and his success assured; for, if the
performance did not come off on Thursday, Dick had a feeling that Ralph
Bryton would see that it was indefinitely postponed. He had seen enough
of the man’s methods not to realize that no stone would be left unturned
to thwart Demarest.
Presently he yanked off his overcoat, and tossed it on a chair.
“I’ll do it!” he muttered. “I’ve got to do it! There’s no other way
out!”
Then, springing to the telephone, he called up the New Haven House, and
asked for Miss Gray. In a moment he heard her voice at the other end of
the wire.
“This is Mr. Merriwell, Miss Gray,” he said quickly. “I’ve heard from
Austin. He’s unavoidably detained, and cannot get here before two
o’clock. Can the dress rehearsal be postponed until then, do you think?”
She gave a gasp of relief, which was almost a sob.
“Yes, of course,” she said swiftly. “That will give us time enough to
get through before the evening performance. Oh, I’m so glad everything
is right with him! I was so afraid something had happened. You know,
Bryton would stop at nothing to prevent this opening.”
“Yes, I understood that from Austin,” Merriwell returned quietly. “But I
don’t see what he can do now. You’ll have every one at the theatre at
two, will you?”
“Surely. Thank you so much, Mr. Merriwell, and do forgive me for putting
you to so much trouble.”
“It hasn’t been any trouble at all,” Dick assured her. “I was terribly
worried about Austin myself, but everything will be all right now. If
you don’t mind, I won’t come over just now. I have some rather important
work to do, but I’ll meet you later, I hope.”
“Of course. You must come behind the scenes to-night, and meet the
company. Thank you again. Good-by.”
As he hung up the receiver, a whimsical smile flashed into Merriwell’s
face.
“Yes, I certainly expect to come behind the scenes, and meet the
company,” he murmured. “I’m glad she didn’t ask any more questions. As
it was, I escaped without telling an actual untruth. I suppose Demarest
is wise in not wanting any one to know. It would probably break them all
up; but I wonder if I can possibly keep up the deception. Gee! It makes
me cold all over to think about it! Just have to trust to luck, I
reckon. Now for it.”
Snatching up the manuscript of the play, he dragged a chair close to the
window, and started to work.
In something over an hour, he got up, and, dropping the play, began to
walk the floor, reeling off the part at lightning speed. When he came to
the end of the first act, he gave a sigh of relief.
“One gone,” he muttered. “Pretty superficial, but it will have to do. I
must see that the prompter is on the job to-night.”
When he next came to himself another act had been memorized, and it was
half-past twelve. He had expected Brad to come in and interrupt, but
happily the Texan did not appear. He must have gone directly to the
dining hall from his last recitation.
By a quarter of two the last words had been committed, and Dick snatched
overcoat and hat, stuffed the manuscript into his pocket, and flew
downstairs.
Not ten minutes later the door was flung open, and Brad Buckhart entered
hastily.
“Not here!” he exclaimed, with a swift look about the room. “Where in
thunder is he? Cut everything this morning, without a word of
explanation! Didn’t even show up to dinner! It sure beats everything,
the bad ways he’s getting into!”
He plumped down in the chair beside the table, his brows drawn down into
a scowl. A moment later he slid his hand down the arm of the chair, and
drew forth a crumpled wad of yellow paper.
“Humph!” he grunted. “What’s this?”
Smoothing it out, he saw that it was a telegram, and, scarcely realizing
what he was doing, his eyes took in the first line. After that nothing
could have prevented his reading it to the very end, so interested was
he.
“Suffering catamounts!” he exclaimed. “If that don’t beat all! Arrested!
Wants Dick to take the part! Great tarantulas! That’s what the old
galoot’s been up to all morning—learning the stuff. It’s sure it!”
For a moment he sat there in thoughtful silence. Then a slow smile broke
out all over his face, and the next moment he threw back his head, and
laughed till the tears came into his eyes.
“By the great horn spoon!” he cried. “That’s the best thing I ever
heard. Think of old Dick going on the stage, and half of Yale College
looking on, and not knowing it’s him. Gee! If we don’t have a circus
to-night with Richard I’ll eat my hat!”
He broke off, and glanced again at the telegram.
“I can’t tell ’em, though, can I?” he muttered. “Dick never meant I
should see this. But you bet the Untamed Maverick of the Pecos will have
his share of joy out of it. You hear me talk!”
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