A REMARKABLE STAGE DUEL.
Douglas Dunton was “sore.” He felt that, besides other unpleasant things
that had happened, he had lost his friend and chum, and he blamed Frank
Merriwell for it all.
And when he saw Merriwell carry his part through the second act quite as
well as he had done in the first, only getting adrift twice, and then
faking lines so that it was unnecessary to prompt him, Dunton actually
was sick. His lips, on which there were no coloring, looked blue and
cold, and his flesh was clammy to the touch.
When Merriwell won a burst of applause, Dunton cursed the audience for a
lot of fools, but took care that his curses were not heard by anyone.
To add to his rage, Cassie had the impudence to sweetly ask him if he
didn’t think Mr. Merriwell was doing “real well.”
He did not make a reply—he could not.
“I’ll make a fool of the fellow in the duel scene,” he thought. “I’ll
show the audience just what a stick he is before I am disarmed, and I’ll
make everybody see that I voluntarily permit him to disarm me. That’s
where I’ll get in my work.”
Somehow, when he thought it over, this seemed a weak sort of revenge. He
longed to humble Merriwell, to completely humiliate him, to disgrace
him, if possible.
He could not hide from himself the fact that Merriwell’s work thus far
was really marvelous, and that added to his rage immeasurably.
How was it that this fellow, with no experience on the stage, could take
an important part, commit it in such short time, and play it with the
skill of a drilled actor?
When the second act was over, Dunton was surly as a dog with a sore ear.
Havener came and spoke to him.
“Merriwell is doing first rate,” said the stage-manager; “but the duel
will be difficult for him, and I want you to help him as much as you
can. You can help him make it effective, if you will, and I shall be
watching. Don’t be foolish, Dunton. You can see now that it was better
not to put two persons onto new parts, instead of one, and that’s what
would have been done if I had let you play the part Merriwell has. I
just spoke to him about you, and he says he holds no hard feelings. He
will bury the hatchet and forget all that has happened if you will do
the same. Now, come, promise me that you will help him on the duel. Will
you?”
Dunton hesitated, a sour look on his face.
“Be a man,” urged Havener. “Promise.”
“Be a man!” Those words cut, and Dunton ground his teeth softly. Then,
all at once, he pretended to relent, and he said:
“Oh, well, I can’t forget so quickly, but I’ll do what I can for the
fellow on the duel.”
“That’s good,” nodded Havener. “I shall be watching.”
“Yes, I’ll do what I can for him!” grated Dunton, softly, as the
stage-manager moved away. “Oh, but you had a crust to come to me and
talk like that!”
When the curtain went up for the third act, Dunton was eager for the
time of the duel to arrive. His eagerness made him go at his part with
more vim than heretofore, and Havener, watching him, nodded his
satisfaction, saying to himself:
“I guess the fellow sees at last that he has been making a fool of
himself. He’ll be all right, now.”
The third act went with a swing that fairly carried the audience. Bursts
of applause were frequent. The play was a success, and Havener knew he
would receive congratulations from Haley, who was “on the front of the
house.” At last the duel scene was on. It was a forest setting, and
Merriwell, the challenged party, had fallen into a snare set for him by
Dunton, the villain, by naming swords as the weapons.
Dunton and his second were first on the scene, and the conversation
between them was to the effect that in three minutes the time set for
the duel would pass, and there were no signs of the challenged party.
Dunton: “He will not come—he dare not come!”
Second: “There is yet time. He may arrive at the last moment.”
Dunton: “He is a coward, from a race of cowards. He poses as a
gentleman, but the blood of a craven flows in his veins.”
These words were spoken with an intensity and double significance that
Frank, waiting in the wings, did not miss.
Second: “The time is nearly up.”
Dunton: “Yes.”—Looks at his watch.—“There is but one minute more. He
will fail to appear, and when next we meet, I will brand him as the cur
he is.”
Second: “You will come out of this affair honorably without danger to
yourself.”
Dunton: “Danger! Bah! What danger would there be to face him! I would
toy with him—play with him as a cat plays with a mouse. I would let him
see that he was completely at my mercy. I would laugh at his clumsy
efforts, and then, when I had tired of the sport, I would run him
through the heart! But I shall not have that pleasure.”—Closes watch
with a snap.—“The time is up, and he is not here.”
(Frank enters, followed by his second, with weapons in case.)
Frank: “You are wrong, sir; I am here!”
The audience, whose sympathy was entirely with Merry, gave him a hearty
round of applause.
Dunton: “Your craven feet must have faltered slowly on the way.”
Frank: “It was not the fault of our feet, sir; we lost the way, and were
forced to seek directions. I assure you that we made all haste, and, now
we are here, no time shall be lost.”
Then arrangements were swiftly made for the duel, and soon the two young
men stood face to face, stripped of coats and vests, their swords in
their hands.
The duel began, and, at the very first, it seemed evident that Dunton
was the most skillful swordsman. But Dunton himself soon discovered that
Merriwell had lost much of his apparent awkwardness displayed at the
rehearsal, and it called out the fellow’s best efforts to beat Frank
back and make a display of superiority.
Dunton’s rage increased with every passing moment. He was failing to
make such a display of Merriwell as he had hoped, and his anger drove
him temporarily insane. With terrible fury he beat Merry back and back.
Frank retreated, watching his antagonist closely. All at once, he saw a
deadly glare in Dunton’s eyes, and the fellow hissed:
“Now you die!”
Then he lunged straight at Frank’s heart!
It was no false movement, but it was a savage thrust with murderous
intent.
Frank realized his danger on the instant. Dunton, insane with anger,
meant to kill him, and then declare it was an accident.
Merriwell leaped aside, and parried with a slight turn of his wrist. The
point of his enemy’s sword was turned aside, but it passed through his
shirt sleeve.
Realizing he was baffled, Dunton fought like a fiend, and the swords
clashed and clanged, sparks flying from the glittering blades.
The audience little dreamed a real duel was taking place on that stage,
but never before had they witnessed anything like it, and, as one man,
they arose to their feet.
Clash! clash! clash! The ring of steel against steel filled the house.
Like young tigers, the two antagonists crouched and darted and circled
and sprang.
It was a most thrilling spectacle.
“Curse you!” panted Dunton, as he was baffled again and again.
Not a word came from Merriwell, but now there was a light in his eyes
that his enemy had never seen there.
Dunton could not reach Frank, try as he might, and he began to realize
that this fellow whom he despised was really his master with the weapons
they held.
The seconds became alarmed and seemed about to interfere, for they
realized that there was something more than acting about this wonderful
duel.
“Keep back!” ordered Frank. “It will be all right.”
“I’ll do it yet!” vowed Dunton, inwardly.
Now Merriwell was toying with the stage villain, a true villain at
heart, and, realizing what a poor showing he was making, Dunton set his
teeth and made a last bold dash for the life of his foe.
Right there Merriwell caught Dunton’s blade on his, let it slip past
till the hilts met, and then tore the weapon from the fellow’s hand,
sending it spinning into the air.
Dunton fell back, with a cry of amazement and horror.
Down came the blade, and Merry caught it gracefully, instantly offering
it, hilt first, to his disarmed foe.
Dunton hesitated, then, like a flash, he snatched the weapon and tried
to run Frank through!
The audience gasped.
But Merriwell was not caught. Back he went with a spring, and again his
sword clanged against that of his enemy.
Now it was not possible for the eye to follow all the movements of those
gleaming weapons. Frank was a perfect whirlwind, and the terrible look
on his set face frightened Dunton beyond measure.
At last, being unable to withstand Merry, the fellow dropped his sword
and cried out for mercy.
“Mercy!” shot from Frank’s lips. “What mercy do you deserve? But go! I
would not stain my hands with such treacherous blood!”
Then the curtain came down amid a perfect uproar of applause.
------------------------------------------------------------------------