A LIVELY NIGHT.
Entirely unaware that he had been saved from a second attack from the
waiters by Dunton’s action, Frank lost no time in leaving the place, the
girl clinging to his arm.
She was so badly frightened when the street was reached that it was some
time before she could tell where she lived.
When they had walked some distance, Frank said:
“Miss, I hope you will pardon me for interfering as I did, but I could
not help it when I saw Dunton inducing you to drink wine. I read
innocence in your face. I knew you were out of your element in that
place and among the frequenters of it, and I resolved to save you.”
“But—but, the gentleman I was with, Mr. Dunton, is one of your company,
Mr. Merriwell,” faltered the frightened and bewildered girl.
“I am well aware of that, and that was one reason why I was all the more
determined to save you.”
“But he seemed like a nice fellow. Of course I did not admire him as I
do you, Mr. Merriwell, but he was so pleasant, so jolly, so kind!”
“I haven’t a doubt of it. That made him all the more dangerous. I saw
you talking with him when I entered the theater this afternoon.”
“Oh, did you!” she exclaimed. “Why, I didn’t think you noticed me at
all!”
“But I did, and I had a talk with Dunton about you.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“Goodness! I was not aware I was so important!”
“I talked to him plainly, and I fancied my words had some impression. I
was astonished when I saw you entering that place in company with him
to-night.”
“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” cried the girl, in confusion; “is that a bad place?
I didn’t know. I never was in there before! I didn’t know anything about
it.”
“I believe that is the truth, for you did not seem at all at home in the
place. I noticed that while watching you.”
“Mr. Dunton said it was a respectable restaurant, and he was so kind to
ask me to have a little lunch with him, and he seemed so much like a
perfect gentleman, and I didn’t like to refuse, and you did not even
give me a look this afternoon, and—and——”
“There, there! You have explained it all. I understand it perfectly, my
dear Miss—Miss——”
“Dow—Dora Dow.”
“Dora?”
“Yes.”
“One of the notes I received to-day was signed Dora.”
“I—I wrote it,” confessed the girl, greatly embarrassed.
“I thought so.”
“You—you didn’t wear—the—the ribbon I sent.”
“No.”
“Then you did not want to know me?”
“My dear girl, I did not believe I would be doing right to encourage you
in your folly. It is plain you have some very mistaken ideas in your
little head. You said you thought actors perfectly lovely.”
“I do.”
“Some actors may be, but it is not safe for you to think them all so,
and, above all things, it is not safe for you to make the acquaintance
of actors as you made that of Douglas Dunton.”
“But there’s—there’s no other way to become acquainted with them, is
there, Mr. Merriwell?”
“I fancy you will be better off if you do not know them.”
“I must know them! How can I ever get onto the stage unless I do? Now,
tell me that, Frank Merriwell!”
“My dear Miss Dow, is it absolutely necessary for you to go on the
stage?”
“I don’t know that it’s absolutely necessary, but I want to do so. It
must be just perfectly lovely to play parts and sing and get flowers and
wear diamonds!”
“That is how it seems to you. You know nothing of the work and worry of
the life, nothing of its uncertainties, its privations. You see the
actors dancing and singing and being merry before the footlights, and it
seems ‘perfectly lovely.’ You may not know that in hundreds of cases the
actresses send themselves the flowers they receive. Their diamonds
glitter, but stage diamonds are paste, as a rule. I have no time to tell
you all about the hollow mockeries of the life, but I have an
opportunity to warn you, if you have a home, to stick by your home, and
forever give up the notion of becoming an actress.”
The girl pouted.
“Oh, I don’t like you, Mr. Merriwell!” she cried. “I didn’t think you,
an actor, would talk like that! That is the way papa talks.”
“Your father is right. Listen to him. I believe you said in your note
that your mother is dead?”
“Yes.”
“That is most unfortunate. Just now you need a mother to look out for
you. But you have a home. If you were to become an actress, it is
probable you would not have a home. Six months in the year, perhaps, or
even more, you might be searching for an engagement, living as best you
could during that time, uncertain as to the future. You would be the
prey of sharks and sharpers, you would be bullied and cheated, you might
get out with a company and be left stranded and penniless a thousand
miles from anywhere. Your sensitive nature would revolt against mankind
and the world. All your finer nature would be ruined. Then you would do
one of two things. You would end it all by taking your own life, or you
would turn about and prey upon men, sinking lower and lower, traveling
the road to destruction.”
The girl shuddered and cried out:
“Oh!” she gasped. “I can’t believe anything so horrible would happen to
me!”
“It has happened to thousands before you.”
“But I—I thought——”
“That all actresses were happy and prosperous—that they lived lives of
ease and pleasure.”
“Yes, it seemed that way.”
“And I dare say you thought it an easy thing to become an actress?”
“It seemed so,” she repeated.
“Did you ever stop to think if you had any special qualification for
becoming an actress?”
“Well, I thought I was rather—rather——”
“Pretty?”
“Yes,” she admitted, in great confusion.
“And did you think that the only requirement for becoming an actress?”
“No, of course not, but——”
“The girl who can act, who has real dramatic ability, is fortunate if
she is pretty. That is absolutely true. It requires great talent for a
homely girl to win success on the stage. At the same time, a girl who is
merely pretty has almost absolutely no show unless she has dramatic
ability to some extent, or can sing in a manner to command attention.
Are you a fine singer?”
“I can sing a little.”
“A little will not do. Keep off the stage, Miss Dow. Avoid actors. Do
not flirt with them. You know nothing about them. They may be honorable
men, and they may not be. The chances are that they are not. They are
here to-day and gone to-morrow. They live lives which tend to rob them
of their fine sense of honor.”
The girl was silent some moments, as they walked along. At last she
said:
“Mr. Merriwell, I believe you have told me the truth. I have refused to
believe others who have told me things about the stage and actors, but
you are an actor, and you know what you are talking about. I realize now
that I was very foolish to-night. Oh, I’ll get a scolding from papa, for
he told me I could not go to the theater, and I ran away to go, just to
see you.”
She seemed on the verge of tears.
“If your father scolds to-night, do not answer him saucily,” advised
Frank.
“What can I tell him? He will want to know where I have been.”
“My dear girl, the best thing you can do is to tell him the truth.”
She gasped.
“I’d never, never, never dare do that! He would be furious!”
“Then you must not ask me what to tell him. I can give you no other
advice.”
Again she was silent some moments.
“I’ll do it!”
The exclamation burst from the girl’s lips.
“Mr. Merriwell,” she said, “I am going to tell papa just what has
happened, no matter how angry he may be. I’ll tell him all about the
good advice you have given me, and I’ll also tell him that I mean to
heed it. No matter what happens, I am going to tell the truth to-night!
That is settled!”
“Bravo, little girl!” exclaimed Merry, in great satisfaction. “I do not
believe you will be sorry.”
They turned down a street, and the girl stopped before they had gone
far.
“I live just a few doors below,” she said. “I don’t think you had better
go further. Mr. Merriwell—I—I don’t know how to say it, but I want to—to
thank you. You have been awfully kind to me, and I appreciate it. You
are just as brave as I believed you were, for you were not a bit afraid
of those two waiters in the restaurant, and you handled them so easily!
No matter what you have said about actors I shall always know there is
one who is brave, noble and honorable! I shall not forget you, Mr.
Merriwell!”
Her voice trembled.
“I am glad to know you will remember me that way, Miss Dow,” said Merry.
“You must not understand that I said all actors were bad. There are
honorable men who are actors, the same as there are honorable men in
other professions. The dishonorable ones, however, are those you are
most likely to meet through a chance acquaintance. I hope you will never
make the acquaintance of any man again in such a manner.”
“I—hope you do not—think too—bad—of—me,” she murmured, hanging her head.
“I do not think that way of you at all,” assured Frank. “I simply think
you are like many other girls, too ready to depend on the honor of men
of whom you know absolutely nothing.”
“Thank you.”
“Good-by.”
“You—you may come to St. Jo. again?”
“Possibly, although it is uncertain.”
“But you have done so well here this time, and the people liked you so
much.”
“I know; however, I may not be in the theatrical business next season. I
hope to return to college. Good-by.”
She held out her hand.
“Good-by!” she exclaimed, impulsively. “I wish you all the success you
deserve, and that is good fortune in everything.”
He took her hand. Then she turned away quickly, and he watched her till
she had ascended the steps to her home.
Frank was satisfied. No matter what came out of the affair between
himself and Dunton, he felt that he had done right. Thinking it all
over, he walked onward swiftly.
Suddenly he stopped and looked around.
“By Jove!” he muttered. “I believe I have lost my way! I do not remember
passing through this quarter of the city.”
He walked on slowly.
“I’ll meet a policeman pretty soon,” he thought, “and I’ll ask him to
direct me.”
But the section of the city seemed to grow still worse as he advanced.
Almost before he was aware of it, he found himself near the water front.
“Well, I’m clean off my trolley!” he muttered, turning back.
Pretty soon he came to a street where lights shone from windows here and
there, and there were sounds of laughter and music issuing from some of
the rather disreputable-looking buildings. Women flitted along the
street, sometimes accompanied by men, sometimes alone. One of them,
quite alone, stopped Merry, grasped him by the arm, peered into his
face, and brokenly asked:
“Have you seen her?”
By the light that shone from a window, Frank saw that the woman was at
least fifty years old and dressed in a fairly respectable manner. She
seemed greatly excited, and she was trembling.
“Whom do you mean, madam?” asked Frank, respectfully.
“My child—my little girl!” answered the woman. “She is here somewhere in
this city! I don’t know where! I can’t find her! Oh Heaven! I can’t find
her!”
“You have lost your daughter?” questioned Frank, with a thrill of
sympathy.
“Yes, yes! Have you seen her?”
“How should I know her if I saw her?”
The woman seemed dazed. She put her hand to her head, as if trying to
think. Frank could see she was nearly distracted with grief. Her eyes
were red from weeping and her care-lined face still wet with tears.
“I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know how to find her! The only way is to ask
somebody—anybody. I thought I would ask the men whom I met on the street
to-night, hoping some of them might be able to tell me something about
her.”
“I am very sorry, madam, but I’m afraid I can tell you nothing.”
A despairing moan issued from the woman’s lips.
“I followed her as soon as possible,” she said. “She ran away from home
and came here to this city. She has been here before, and the city has
ruined her. Her head is filled with false notions! Oh, I fear I shall
not find my little girl again!”
“Cheer up, madam. Have you applied to the police?”
“No, no; not yet! I didn’t want to do that. Daisy is so proud—so
spirited! She would be awfully angry if I were to put the police after
her.”
“Daisy!” exclaimed Frank.
“Yes, that is her name.”
“Daisy Blaney?”
The woman gave a scream and caught hold of him with wonderful strength.
“You have seen her? You know her? You can tell me where she is?”
“If that is your daughter’s name, I have seen her and had a talk with
her.”
“Where is she—where is she?”
The woman was so excited that she fairly choked over the words.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t tell me that!” the distracted mother screamed. “You must know!”
“I give you my word of honor that I do not.”
“When did you see her?”
“Shortly after noon to-day.”
“Where?”
“Near the Crawford Theater.”
“What was she doing there?”
Frank did not wish to tell that she had spoken to him. He said he did
not know, and, in a clever manner, explained how he had talked with her,
without telling how it came about.
“Poor Daisy! My little Daisy!” sobbed the woman. “She did not tell you
the whole truth. She is not stopping with her friends here now. Her
father was rather harsh with her, but he is ready enough to take her
back. I followed her as soon as I could, but I have hunted, hunted,
hunted—all in vain. Oh, I must find her! Can’t you help me?”
“My good woman, the best thing you can do is to get some rest to-night
and look for your daughter to-morrow.”
“Rest! Do you think I can rest while my little girl is adrift in this
wicked city? No, no! I shall never rest again till I find her!”
In vain Frank urged her, seeing that she was almost utterly worn out.
She would not listen to him. She made him promise he would tell Daisy if
he saw her that her mother was there searching everywhere for her. And
then, all at once, the woman cried out that she must be searching,
searching, and away she went.
When she was gone, Frank realized he had not found where she was
stopping, or how he could communicate with her if he happened to meet
Daisy again.
“But it isn’t likely I’ll see the girl again,” he muttered, walking on.
“We leave the city early to-morrow.”
The meeting with the unfortunate woman had driven the feeling of
satisfaction from him. He could not forget her and her saddened,
tear-wet face. He was haunted by thoughts of her.
He came to a large building, in front of which hung a lighted,
transparent sign, which read:
_THE JOLLY CLUB._
DANCE TO-NIGHT.
The sound of music came from the open windows far above his head.
As he paused a moment and glanced upward, he heard a laugh that gave him
a start. He had heard that mocking laughter before.
“It’s Daisy Blaney!” he exclaimed.
In a moment Frank had formed a resolution. He would find the girl if she
were in the dance hall.
Frank ascended the stairs, learned that he could obtain admission for
fifty cents, paid the money and entered the hall.
A waltz was in progress, and the floor was covered with gliding,
whirling couples. As Frank had expected, the patrons of the dance were
of the lower order of society, although there seemed to be some
semirespectable people on the floor.
Merry looked around for the girl whom he sought, and, to his intense
satisfaction, it was not long before he discovered her. She was waltzing
with a tall, red-headed young man, who looked like a would-be tough.
Frank kept watch of her, and when the waltz was over he saw her
disappear with her partner into an adjoining room.
Merry followed.
He found this room was where “refreshments” were served. In this case
the “refreshments” seemed to consist mainly of beer, which the thirsty
couples consumed at little tables.
Daisy and her partner were seated at a table, and Frank walked past,
hoping she would notice him. She did, and instantly she uttered an
exclamation of surprise.
“Frank Merriwell!” she cried, starting up. “What are you doing here?”
“Miss Blaney,” said Frank, stopping and lifting his hat in the most
respectful manner, fully aware that the red-headed youth was glaring at
him in a savage manner. “I was looking for you.”
“For me?” gasped the girl, in still greater astonishment. “Now you are
chucking a jolly at me!”
“Not a bit of it.”
“Then come sit down. Mr. Merriwell, this is a friend of mine, Mr.
Gallagher.”
Frank acknowledged the introduction by a bow, and “Mr. Gallagher”
growled something in his throat.
Daisy urged him to sit down, but Frank did not fancy taking a seat in
that place. However, in order to get an opportunity to talk with her, he
finally seated himself, to the disgust of the youth with the red hair.
“Wot’ll yer have?” demanded a waiter, appearing at Frank’s elbow the
moment he was seated.
“You may bring me a sarsaparilla,” said Merry, “and serve Miss Blaney
and Mr. Gallagher whatever they choose to order.”
“Sarsaparilla!” shouted the girl, with a laugh. “Oh, say, Merry, old
fellow, have a beer! Babies drink soft stuff!”
“Then I think you’ll have to class me with the babies,” said Frank.
“Excuse me,” growled Gallagher, rising. “I don’t drink wid chaps that
goozle that kind of stuff.”
Then he walked away.
Merry was satisfied to have the fellow depart.
The moment Gallagher was gone, Daisy’s manner changed, and she swiftly
said:
“What made you come here? You are in danger!”
“Danger?” exclaimed Frank, astonished.
“Sure thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Soon as I left you to-day, some men came up to me and asked me if I
knew you. I chucked a bluff that you were a particular friend of mine.
Then they offered me twenty-five dollars to decoy you into a dive where
they could knock the stuffing out of you.”
“This is interesting!” commented Merry, with a smile.
“Both those chaps are here to-night!” said the girl.
“Still more interesting.”
“You had better get out right away. There are some scrappers here, and
you wouldn’t stand a ghost of a show if they spotted you, and tried to
lay you out.”
“You must go with me, when I go, Miss Blaney.”
“I must? What for?”
“Your mother is in St. Jo. searching for you.”
“My mother?” cried the girl, astounded. “Oh, come off your perch! What
are you giving me?”
“The truth. I met her a short time ago. She is nearly crazy, and she’s
wandering up and down the streets to-night, searching for you, stopping
every man and asking if he has seen you. She stopped me, and that was
how I knew she was here.”
The girl turned pale for all of the paint on her cheeks.
“Heavens!” she gasped. “I didn’t think for a minute she would do such a
thing! My mother wandering about the streets of this city to-night! It’s
awful!”
“Here’s yer drinks,” said the waiter, as he placed the glasses before
them.
“I don’t want anything more,” said the girl, rising.
“But der drinks were ordered, an’ dey’ll have ter be paid fer,” declared
the man, in an ugly manner.
“Here is your pay,” said Frank, flinging down a piece of money. “Come,
Miss Blaney; we’ll try to find your mother.”
They started to leave the room, but before they had crossed the floor
three men appeared in the doorway. Mr. Gallagher was one of them, and he
pointed at Frank, saying:
“Dere’s yer meat, gents!”
The others were Lester Vance and Reginald, the blackmailer!
“Those are the men who wanted me to decoy you into a dive!” whispered
Daisy Blaney, in great alarm. “You are in a bad scrape, Frank
Merriwell!”
Both the rascals uttered exclamations of satisfaction on seeing Frank.
“We’ve got him!” cried Vance, triumphantly. “Let’s fix him so he’ll not
be pretty enough to play the hero on the stage again for a month!”
“Oh, we’ll fix him!” laughed the other man, showing his teeth.
“He’ll be easy,” sneered Gallagher. “He drinks sarsaparilla!”
Then the two men sprang at Frank, crying:
“Spotter! Fly cop! Spy!”
That cry was enough to create a sensation in the room.
Merry met their assault, and he quickly got a crack at Vance that sent
the fellow spinning.
A hot fight ensued, but Frank was more than a match for the two men. He
seemed to avoid their worst blows, and the way he got back at them
filled Daisy Blaney with unutterable satisfaction.
“Well, he’s a bird, Gallagher, if he does drink sarsaparilla!” she
cried. “He can eat you!”
That infuriated the red-headed fellow, and he plunged into the conflict.
He took Frank by surprise, and got in a blow that staggered Merry for a
moment.
“Dat fresh eat me!” howled Gallagher. “Well, I guess nit. He’s a soft
t’ing, an’ I can do him wid me hands tied behind——”
Just then Frank got at Mr. Gallagher. He feinted, leading the fellow to
lift his guard, and then Merry drove in a sledge-hammer blow over the
heart that caused the red-headed chap to collapse and lay gasping and
groaning on the floor.
It is possible Frank would have come off with flying colors, but the men
had been given the impression that he was a spotter or spy who had been
sent there for the purpose of making the club trouble, and now at least
a dozen persons sailed into him. Before such an onslaught he was unable
to stand. He was beaten to his knees, and he would have been trampled
under their feet in a few seconds more.
Then it was that a woman literally tore her way into the heart of the
crowd, pushed and beat them back from Frank, and stood over him with a
small revolver in her hand, screaming:
“Cowards! Are there no real men among you? Back! This gun is loaded,
and, by Heaven! I’ll shoot the first one who tries to touch him!”
“It’s Queen Mab!” exclaimed several, and they fell back before her.
Frank staggered to his feet. One look he took at the woman, and he saw
she was the one who had sought to aid in blackmailing him.
“He is no spotter,” she declared. “He is Frank Merriwell, the actor who
is playing at the Crawford. I suppose he came in here to enjoy himself,
the same as any man may. He has behaved himself, and this brutal assault
is an outrage.”
“Mab!” cried a shaking voice, and the man who had claimed to be her
husband forced his way forward, his face bruised and cut and bleeding
from the blows he had received, “have you gone crazy?”
“No!” she shouted back. “But I’ve seen enough of this! Shame on you,
Reg, to try to get revenge like this just because he was too sharp to
bite your bait! As for that fellow who planned the job, he’s a cheap
actor who was kicked out of Merriwell’s company, and he has been trying
to do something to get revenge. I’m disgusted with him!”
It seemed that the woman was well known there, and her words carried
some weight. It was useless for the man to protest, she showed her scorn
for him and expressed her admiration for Frank Merriwell.
“He’s going out of here!” she declared, “and not another one of you will
lift a hand against him! I’ll shoot the dog that tries it. I promise you
that, and you know Queen Mab always keeps her promises.”
“What she says goes,” declared a man. “You may as well let the young
fellow alone. She’ll take him out.”
“I’m not going without Daisy Blaney,” muttered Frank, looking round.
“Where is she?”
Daisy was found, and the three moved toward the door. No one offered to
stop or molest them.
When the street was reached, the woman stopped and put up her revolver.
She laughed a little.
“I rather admired you this morning, Mr. Merriwell,” she said. “I found
you were too shrewd to be caught in such a trap as we had set for you.
But more than ever I admire you now since I have seen you fight a dozen
men and nearly prove a match for them all. You are all right, my boy,
and you’ll not be troubled again by Queen Mab.”
Then, before Frank could say a word, she whirled about and ran back into
the building.
They were standing there in the light from the doorway when there came a
cry, and a woman came running up, flinging her arms about the girl.
“Daisy!” she screamed. “My child, I have found you!”
“Mother!” exclaimed the girl, putting her arms round the aged woman and
supporting her. “Mr. Merriwell found me and told me you were here,
searching for me. Oh, mother, mother! I am so sorry!”
The woman was crying. Between her sobs, she exclaimed:
“Daisy, you will—go back—home? Father is—sorry! He’ll forgive
and—forget, if you’ll—come back. I have been distracted! You—you’ll kill
me if you don’t—come home! Won’t you come?”
“Yes, mother,” said the girl, now breaking into tears, “I’ll come home!”
“Well,” uttered Frank Merriwell, “this has been a rather lively night,
but it has turned out most satisfactory in all ways.”
* * * * *
“Merriwell,” said Dunton, the following day, “I don’t remember just what
I said in that restaurant last night, for I was pretty angry with you. I
have been thinking it over since, and I’m rather glad you did just what
you did. That little girl was altogether too unsophisticated. I don’t
hold any hard feelings, and I hope you’ll forget anything I shot at
you.”
“It’s all right,” assured Frank. “It’s rather awkward for either of us
to speak about the matter, and I’m glad you were the one to mention it.
But let such girls alone, Dunton. The world is bad enough, and women
have reasons enough for thinking men deceivers and villains. You’ll find
you’ll feel better if you do your best to make them think they have made
a mistake in judging the sterner sex.”
“I think you are right about that,” confessed Dunton. “I believe I have
learned a lesson.”