DUNTON SEEKS REVENGE.
The most of the company got out of the theater as soon as possible after
being given permission to go.
Frank remained to receive some instructions from Havener.
After giving Merry a few pointers, the stage-manager observed:
“You did surprisingly well this afternoon, Merriwell.”
“Thank you,” said Frank.
“If you get stuck to-night for the exact lines, do you think you can
fake?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, don’t try it if there is any chance of getting off your trolley
and mixing yourself and everybody else. Faking lines is a dangerous and
reprehensible practice, and the resort of lazy actors who will not learn
their parts; but there are times when faking cannot very well be
avoided, and the ability to do it well on such occasions is worth much
to a man. Don’t try it to-night, Merriwell, unless you have some idea of
the real gist of your speech and feel certain you can finish by giving
the next speaker the proper cue.”
“All right, sir.”
Havener looked at Frank doubtfully, and then suddenly said:
“Don’t get the swelled head, but if you do as well in playing to-night
as you did at rehearsing this afternoon, you’ll show yourself a wonder.
I don’t often say anything like this to anybody, but somehow I felt that
it might encourage you without doing you any harm, and I want to give
you all the encouragement possible.”
“Thank you again,” came simply from Frank.
“I don’t see how you committed so many lines by simply reading them over
once.”
“I have a good memory.”
“Good! Marvelous, I should say. If you save the piece by playing that
part pretty well to-night, you will pull us out of a bad hole and show
yourself cut out for an actor.”
That was all Havener had to say, and it was remarkable for him, as he
seldom complimented anyone. He was profuse with his criticisms, and
sparing with his compliments.
As Frank left the building by the stage door, he remembered that he had
in his pocket a letter which he wished to mail. The post office was near
at hand, and in that direction he turned his steps.
In the window of a store near the post office were two “boards,” on
which were photographs of the various members of the “Empire Theater
Comedy Company,” and some photographed scenes from the various plays in
the repertory of the company.
Two very pretty girls, sixteen or seventeen years of age, had paused to
look at the pictures, and Douglas Dunton, coming out of the post office,
observed them.
Dunton considered himself a great masher, and he knew that, as a rule,
young girls entertain a foolish admiration for actors in general, so he
did not hesitate to walk up to this couple and speak to them.
The girls looked startled.
“Don’t be alarmed, young ladies,” said Dunton, in his most amiable
manner. “I saw you looking at the pictures. I presume you are going to
the play to-night?”
The girls looked at each other, and then turned their backs squarely on
the presuming fellow, their action saying as plainly as words that they
did not care to have anything to do with him.
Frank Merriwell, coming along, saw all this, and it gave him a feeling
of satisfaction.
But Dunton was not to be turned down thus easily.
“I am one of the actors,” he purred, in a manner intended to be very
captivating. “That is my picture in the upper right-hand corner.”
The girls looked at each other again, and they smiled a bit at the
conceit of the fellow.
Dunton misinterpreted the smile to mean that they were softening toward
him, and he continued, glibly:
“I have a disagreeable part to-night, and you will not see me at my best
if you come. I am the villain.”
One of the girls gave him a look, and then murmured to the other:
“Too soft to be a villain.”
Then both giggled, as young girls will.
Dunton flushed a bit, but he was not to be rebuffed.
“That’s all right,” he laughed. “I can stand a little jolly like that.
Don’t you want free passes to the show to-night? I happen to have two.
Here they are.”
The girls hesitated. Surely this was a great temptation to them.
Frank had paused to watch the success of Dunton’s efforts.
“Take them, girls,” urged the presuming actor. “You are welcome to them.
I will see you after the show.”
That was enough to decide one of the girls.
“We do not accept presents from strangers, sir!” she said, cuttingly.
The other one looked disappointed, but said nothing.
“Then permit me to introduce myself,” laughed the masher. “I am Douglas
Dunton, of the Empire Theater Comedy Company. Now you can take turns in
introducing each other to me.”
This was a very pretty little scheme, and one of the girls, who had
light hair and blue eyes, would have fallen into Dunton’s snare readily
enough.
Her dark-haired companion, however, had more stamina and sense.
“Will you kindly go away and leave us!” she exclaimed, sharply. “You are
very annoying, sir.”
Now Dunton was cut to the quick.
“Is that so!” he sneered. “You’re altogether too stuck up, Miss Prim. I
don’t care about talking to you, anyway; but the other young lady has
more sense.”
“Come away, Lottie,” said the dark-haired girl, pulling her companion.
“He is insulting, and there is no one near to protect us.”
That was Frank Merriwell’s cue. He stepped forward instantly, lifting
his hat to the girls and murmuring:
“Permit me to offer my services.”
Then he turned on his fellow actor.
“Mr. Dunton,” he said, grimly, “you have not shown yourself much of a
gentleman in your attempt to force your attentions on these young
ladies. You had better desist.”
Dunton gave a snarl.
“Go to blazes!” he hissed. “If you fool around me, you’ll get thumped!”
He made a threatening movement, but Frank did not stir, looking him
straight in the eyes, and quietly saying:
“I wouldn’t advise you to try it.”
That was too much for the angry actor, and, despite the time and place,
he aimed a blow at Merry’s cheek with his open hand.
Frank ducked like a flash, came up instantly, caught the fellow by the
collar, whirled him about and gave him a push away, advising:
“Go on, now! Don’t try that a second time.”
Then he turned to the girls, swiftly speaking:
“I am very sorry you have been annoyed, and I think you had better get
away from here at once, so you will not be connected in gossip with an
actor’s row, in case Mr. Dunton forces me to fight.”
The dark-eyed girl gave him a grateful and admiring look, and they both
hastened away.
By that time Dunton had turned, his face now white with rage.
“You interfering puppy!” he grated. “I said I’d do it, and now I will!”
He came at Frank with a rush.
A very tall, lank youth and a short, fat lad, who were approaching,
uttered simultaneous exclamations:
“Gosh all hemlock!”
“Shimminy Gristmas!”
“It’s a fight, Hans!” cried Ephraim Gallup.
“Yaw,” said Hans, breathlessly, “id peen a vight!”
“Frank Merriwell is in it!”
“Yaw, he peen in id, und der odder veller peliefs he vos, too, but he
vill seen his misdake britty soon alretty.”
“Yeou bet! Whoop! Looker that!”
For Frank had met Dunton’s rush squarely, parried the fellow’s blow, and
knocked him down.
The girls, looking back, saw all this.
Dunton was stunned, dazed, astounded. He sat up, clasping a hand over
his eye, and staring at Frank.
Hans and Ephraim strolled up.
“Py Chorch!” said the Dutch lad. “I nefer oxbected to seen Misder Tunton
seddin’ himseluf down to rest der sidevalks on like dot.”
“Waal,” drawled Ephraim, his face twisted into a comical grin, “yeou
can’t never tell jest whut a feller with a real light head will do. He’s
apt to lose his b’lance an’ set daown ’most anywhere.”
“Vot you peen doin’ him to, Vrankie?” inquired Hans, innocently. “He
don’d seem to felt as vell as you might, don’d id?”
“He does look kainder gol darn sick to his stummick,” nodded Ephraim.
Some of the townspeople began to gather around, and Dunton hastily rose
to his feet. He glared at Frank, muttered:
“All right! all right! You’ll settle for that! I’ll remember it!”
Then he started away.
“If yeou want a slice of beefsteak fer that air eye,” drawled the youth
from Vermont, “there’s a butcher shop daown the street a piece.”
Dunton did not reply or turn about.
The crowd was curious to know what the trouble was about, and so Frank
made haste to get away.
Hans and Ephraim accompanied him.
“That air chap kainder run up ag’inst a snag, didn’t he, Frank?” said
the Yankee. “Whut was the raow abaout?”
Merry explained, as they entered the post office.
“Vale,” said Hans, sagely, “some beoble don’d knew so much pefore some
dings happens as they knew afterward britty queek.”
“That chap hates yeou, Frank,” asserted Ephraim; “and yeou want to look
aout for him.”
“He doesn’t seem to be very dangerous,” smiled Merry, dropping his
letter into the slot.
“Yeou can’t tell abaout that. When he finds he can’t hurt ye in a fair
way, he’s purty gol darn sure to try some other way. I wouldn’t trust
him an inch.”
They left the post office and proceeded to the hotel, where Frank went
at once to his room, failing to appear at supper time, as he was busy
studying his part, and could not spare time to eat.
Alone in his room, Merry walked the floor and dug away at the lines. His
door was closed, and he repeated his part, seeking to discover the
proper manner to emphasize the different expressions.
Frank was thoroughly disgusted by the slovenly pronunciation of the
average traveling actor, but the matter of emphasis, he had discovered,
was given less attention than that of pronunciation. Indeed, many actors
mouthed their lines so that the real meaning was utterly obscured, or
the words were made to seem to mean something quite different from what
the playwright intended.
As for gestures and poses, Frank knew that, on an average, twenty actors
gesticulate too much for one who gesticulates too little. The absence of
gesticulation is rarely, if ever, missed, while too many gestures are
almost certain to be offensive.
Some actors seem to fancy they must do something with their hands every
time they open their mouths, and they quickly become annoying to the
audience. It is often the case that action is the resort of impotency.
Frank had studied since starting out with the company, and he had
learned a great deal about actors and their art. He had found there were
books that would give him much needed information, and he had not lost
time in procuring them.
It was Frank’s hobby to know something about everything possible, and to
know everything possible about the business with which he was connected.
It was this that had caused him to get ahead so rapidly in railroading,
and, now that he was no longer employed on a railroad, he hoped to get
ahead swiftly in his new line of work.
One of his books had told him that, “More than all else, it is an
actor’s utterance that fixes his position as an artist,” and, meditating
on the skill of the best actors he had seen, Merry soon decided that
this was true.
It was plain enough to Frank that the “old-time” actor who resorted to
vocal gymnastics, roaring or cooing, as he fancied the occasion
required, did not possess so much actual force as some quiet
“new-school” actors, who seldom raised their voices above a certain
pitch, yet who succeeded in putting deep intensity into their
expressions.
Merry had decided that the beginning and end of the actor’s study should
be the art of delivery. The other things an actor must learn are
comparatively easy, but the art of “reading” well is so difficult that
very few actors become sufficiently acquainted with it to discover how
difficult it really is.
Frank knew he could not learn to deliver his part properly in the short
time given him to commit it, but he resolved to do his best on the lines
he did commit, and so he studied them over carefully to discover just
how they should be spoken.
It was plain enough to him that “the art of elocution” as taught by
ninety-nine elocutionists out of a hundred was something that had far
better be left unlearned if a person really wished to become an actor,
for those “elocutionists” give their attention almost wholly to
modulation, and very little to the meaning of what they read.
In the matter of emphasis, elocution teachers, as a rule, instruct their
pupils to emphasize words, but properly it is ideas and not words that
should be emphasized.
Books on elocution give certain arbitrary rules to be followed, but no
rule that will apply to all cases can be made, and brains are far better
than rules.
Merriwell shut himself up in his room to give his brains a chance to
study out certain things in connection with his lines, as well as to
commit the words to memory. Almost anybody can commit words so they may
be reeled off parrot-like, but it takes intellect to speak words thus
committed so that they convey the meaning the author intended they
should convey.
So intent was Frank on his work that he did not notice when his door
swung open, and he did not know two persons had entered the room till
one of them spoke to the other. That one said:
“Shut the door and lock it, Sargent! We’ve got him alone, and I’ll black
both his eyes before anybody can come up and stop the muss.”
Frank whirled about, dropping the manuscript play on his bed.
Dunton and Sargent were there, and Dunton was taking off his coat in a
very significant manner, while Sargent was hastily locking the door.
There was trouble in the air.
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