PLAIN WORDS.
The entire company seemed in high spirits that night as the time
approached for the curtain to rise on the opening scene of the first
act.
People were pouring into the theater. Every seat had been sold, and the
sign “S. R. O.” was displayed at the box office.
“Methinks this settles it,” spouted Douglas Dunton, behind the curtain.
“Prosperity has struck us hard, and we are winners from the word ‘go.’
Oh, this whole company is hot stuff!”
The orchestra began to play, and Frank, made up for his first
appearance, came to the peephole and looked out at the audience.
Every seat in the Wilcoxson Opera House was filled. The rear of the
theater was packed with those who had paid admission for the privilege
of standing.
“By gum! it’s a sight fer sore eyes!” exclaimed Ephraim Gallup, close to
Frank. “Don’t yeou think so?”
Frank did not reply, for he was searching the faces of those in the rows
near the stage, looking for Sam Hooker.
“There he is!”
Merry muttered the words as his eyes rested on the ruffian.
Sam had secured a seat where he could easily accomplish his purpose, as
he fancied. There was a look of fierce determination on his countenance.
After looking at the fellow some moments, Merry said:
“He’ll try it!”
“What the dickens are yeou talkin’ abaout, Frank?” asked Gallup.
Merriwell straightened up.
“Ephraim,” he said, “go find Mr. Garland and bring him to me.”
“All right.”
The Vermonter hurried away, soon returning with Granville Garland.
“Great fortune, Mr. Merriwell!” exclaimed Garland. “That’s the sort of a
house that pays. It strikes me we are forging to the front with great
strides.”
“Mr. Garland,” said Frank, “have you the revolver you draw on me in the
first act?”
“Yes.”
“Let me take it.”
Garland, wondering a little, passed the weapon to Merry.
Immediately Frank took some cartridges from his pocket, snapped the
weapon open, and——
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Garland, in perplexity. “The revolver
was loaded, Mr. Merriwell.”
“With blanks.”
“Of course.”
“I am loading it with another kind of cartridge,” said Frank, as he
refilled the cylinder.
“Not with regular cartridges?”
“Yes.”
“Why—why, I don’t understand why you are doing that.”
“I suppose not,” admitted Frank, as he finished loading and snapped the
weapon back into shape. “I didn’t think you would understand.”
“A weapon that is loaded with anything but blank cartridges is not a
very safe thing to squabble over.”
“That is true, and, for that reason, we must be very careful in our
squabble over it to-night, Mr. Garland.”
“Really, I—I don’t like this. What if something happened!”
“Something is liable to happen. That is why I have loaded this weapon.
If I should call for it suddenly, you are to pass it to me; but I do not
think I shall need it till after the struggle takes place. It will be in
my possession from that time on.”
“Won’t you explain, Mr. Merriwell?”
“No. It is sufficient that I have a reason for wishing this revolver
loaded with something besides blanks. Here, take it, Garland, and be
careful with it. When you pull it on me, point it in the air and begin
to pull down with it. I will spring forward and grasp it before it
covers me. Keep your finger off the trigger. Do not hang to it quite as
tight as usual in the struggle.”
“All right,” said Garland, in a puzzled way; “but I’d give something to
know what is going on.”
Ephraim Gallup was as much puzzled as Garland, but he asked no
questions, for he knew there were times when it was utterly useless to
question Merry.
The story of Merriwell’s strange act passed from mouth to mouth, and the
actors and actresses were puzzled and bewildered over it. Agnes Kirk
even declared that she believed success had turned Frank’s brain.
“He was always queer,” she asserted. “A fellow who will stoop to feed
and pet a tramp cat and then carry it around as a mascot is not right.
But I call on everybody to notice that we have become prosperous since
he let that cat go.”
“Oh, I hardly think that,” said Stella Stanley. “He did not let the cat
go till after this piece had made a hit. Then he said he could not carry
the creature around, and he would prove she had nothing to do with the
success or failure of the show by letting her go. He seemed to knock the
wind out of your superstitious prophecies, Agnes.”
“Not at all,” declared the other actress, stiffly. “I said the cat would
hoodoo us in the first place, and it did, no matter what happened
afterward.”
“Oh, it’s no use to talk with you.”
“Not a bit.”
Stella Stanley turned away, laughing. She saw Hodge, standing at a
distance, regarding her steadfastly.
Since the affair in Atchison, when Bart deserted the company, the
dark-faced youth had scarcely spoken to Stella. After being brought back
by Frank, he seemed to take the utmost pains to avoid her.
Now, as she started toward him, he wheeled about and disappeared behind
the back drop.
“I’d like to know what ails him!” she exclaimed, somewhat angrily. “He
shan’t keep up this running away from me!”
Then she followed Hodge and ran him down back where the shadows were
thickest. She grasped him with both hands.
“Look here, Bart Hodge!” she exclaimed; “do you think I’m going to eat
you up? or what ails you? You run away from me as if you regarded me as
a snake!”
Hodge stood there, silent, looking at her. She gave him a shake.
“Stop it!” she cried. “I’m tired of it! I don’t like it! I won’t have
it! Will you be good enough, Mr. Bart Hodge, to treat me differently?”
“I don’t know,” he said, obstinately. “Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“There is every reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Name a few of them.”
“To begin with, you regard me as a mere boy—a stripling who does not
know his own mind. You insulted me when I told you of my admiration for
you. You laughed at me. You might as well have said ‘calf love.’ I won’t
stand for that kind of treatment from you or any other woman!”
She did not laugh at him now, for he was beginning to realize that he
could not be treated like a boy. She could not flatter and flirt with
him as she did with Billy Wynne. His admiration for her was not of the
sort to endure that kind of cajolery.
“Mr. Hodge,” she said, “if I did anything to offend you, if I was
offensive, I beg your pardon.”
“Yes, you beg my pardon, but you will go on regarding me as an
addle-pated boy. If I dared open my lips to honestly tell you of my
admiration, you would laugh at me! Oh, I know! You are like them
all—only handsomer and colder!”
“You have a fancy that you have read me, Bart Hodge, but let me tell you
that you are a very poor judge of human nature. You seldom read anybody
aright.”
“It’s not such a difficult thing to read a woman,” he sneered. “They are
all alike in one respect—they are as treacherous and fickle as cats!
They think they love. They enjoy being petted and caressed. They purr
and show all sorts of affection, but they are shallow. No more than a
cat do they know true affection! As ready as a cat are they to sink
their claws into the hand that caresses them! And when their master is
gone, like a cat, they seek petting and fondling from another. They
cannot be constant till the master returns; they cannot be true to death
and after—like a faithful dog!”
Stella Stanley was rather high-spirited, and it made her “hot” to hear
anybody talk in such a manner.
“You are trying your best to insult me now,” she said, “and you are
succeeding very well! I’d like to tell you what I think of men like you,
but I haven’t the time, and I don’t choose to waste my breath on you
now. In some respects, I admire you; in others, I despise you. You are
like all men, thoroughly unjust toward women. Other men may hide their
thoughts, but you speak out; that is the difference. Men talk of the
fickleness of women, but experience shows that women are far more
constant than men. Once a woman loves a man truly, with all her heart
and soul, she never loves another like that. She gives that man all that
is best of her. What does she receive in return? If he provides her a
home, clothes, food, he thinks he is doing his full duty. Don’t talk to
me of the fickleness of women!” she hissed. “Don’t ever dare speak to me
again like this, Bart Hodge! Sometimes I think I admire you, but when
you show yourself as you have just now, I despise you!”
With that she left him; but she did not despise him, for all of her
words.
And Bart? He was trembling all over.
“By Heaven!” he hoarsely whispered. “I could love her, but I won’t!”