DISPOSING OF A RUFFIAN.
It is possible that Frank did not appear at his best at the outset, but
he quickly got into the work.
He expected to hear that odious hiss again, but to his surprise, it was
not repeated. The curtain fell on the first act, and the applause of
the audience showed that the spectators were satisfied thus far.
Between the acts, Cassie came to Frank.
"Who was it hissed?" she asked, fiercely. "That was a measly trick, for
you hadn't opened your mouth. If Lawrence was here----"
"I think it must have been one of the fellows who ruined my magician's
apparatus," answered Frank. "He is in this town."
"How do you know?"
Merry explained.
"Well, he ought to be lynched!" declared the little actress. "Don't let
him rattle you, if he tries it again, Frank. He may be holding back to
break you in one of your good scenes."
"I am on my guard now," assured Merriwell.
"I want to tell you something, Frank," said Cassie, glancing around to
make sure no one was near enough to hear.
"I am listening."
"I'm playing to-night without using the needle."
"No?"
"Yes. First time I've ever been able to quit it entirely, though I have
been tapering down on it. How am I doing?"
"First rate, Cassie. Never could tell any difference from your usual
work."
"Well, it's hard, hard! I have to brace up fearfully to keep keyed to
the right pitch, and I'll be all broke up when the show is over. But I
am winning out."
"Brave little girl!"
"I ain't doing it all alone, Frank. Some one is helping me."
"Who?"
Without a word the little soubrette pointed upward.
Frank bowed his head.
"I am glad you feel that way, Cassie," he said, earnestly and softly.
"I have found in the Bible that He is just as ready to help the lowly
as anybody," murmured the girl. "That's what makes me so sure He
is helping me. Of course I must do my best, but, if I haven't the
strength, He will give me strength."
Frank looked at her, feeling his heart swelling in his bosom with a
new, strange sensation. Had he by his advice led this girl to a rock to
which she could cling and thus escape being swept down by the flood to
the whirlpool of destruction?
"Don't give up, Cassie," he urged. "You can see that you are winning
the fight. Stick to it to the end."
"I will, Frank."
She pressed his hand, and at that moment Havener came upon them. The
man halted and turned about, his face flushing and his jaws hardening.
He had found them whispering together. Cassie had been looking up into
Frank's face with an expression of admiration that was little short of
adoration, and their hands had been clasped.
It might be all right, but there was something strange about
it--something Havener could not understand. Once more he felt the demon
of jealousy stirring uneasily in his heart. He tried to quiet the
beast, but it refused to be soothed thus easily.
What was this secret between the two? Why had they refused to tell it
to him?
He walked away.
"I'll keep my eyes open," he said. "Perhaps I am being made a fool of,
after all!"
A man does not like to think that. Nothing galls him so much as to
think that he is being fooled by some one who is chuckling over the
easy manner in which he is deceived.
The time came for the curtain to rise on the second act. It rolled up,
and the play went on.
In this act Cassie seemed sprightlier than usual. Never before had the
little soubrette seemed so buoyant and full of animal spirits. She
had some good lines and a catchy song and dance. She was encored, and
gave another song, ending with an eccentric dance that fairly set the
audience in an uproar.
Havener was watching her, his brows lowering.
"Never saw her feeling better," he thought. "Is it because of something
Merriwell said to her?"
Then he thought how she had defended Frank, and how eager she had been
to get him back with the company.
The savage animal was gnawing at his heart. He could feel the pain of
its sharp teeth.
"I am being fooled!" he told himself. "Well, if I am, they had better
look out for themselves! If I catch them I'm liable to kill them both!"
Frank, also, played his part with a finish that was surprising, as he
was nothing more than an amateur. The scowling stage manager confessed
to himself that Lawrence could not have done it a whit better, if he
could have done as well.
The third act came on, and everyone seemed getting into their parts
splendidly.
Then there came an interruption.
Down in the middle of the hall sat a big, rough, bewhiskered man, who
had gone out after the first and second acts. His flushed face and
bloodshot eyes told that he had been drinking heavily, and now he began
commenting on the actors and the play.
"A lot of doods in them swaller-tail coats," he said, loudly enough to
be heard in his immediate vicinity. "They strut around, but they'd be
scared to death at the pop of a gun."
Some of the spectators told him to keep still, but that aroused him all
the more.
"Let somebody try to keep me still!" he invited. "I'm Bill Dyer, an'
I've jest come in from Colerader. I don't reckon ther folks around here
have fergot me."
No, they had not forgotten Bill Dyer. He was a bad man before he went
out West to work on a ranch, and no person had cared to get him angry.
Now, from his appearance, it seemed that his residence in the West had
not improved him or his disposition.
So the play went on, interrupted now and then by the muttered words of
Dyer.
At last came the act in which Frank made love to the leading lady. They
were alone on the stage, and Merriwell was doing his best to win her
consent to an immediate marriage. Just as he clasped her waist, Bill
Dyer rose to his feet with a whoop, yelling:
"That's hot stuff, young feller; but you hadn't oughter do it in the
light. Alwus make love in the dark. I'll jest give ye a little help by
puttin' out the lights."
From some place about his person he produced a pair of revolvers, and,
a second later, he began shooting at the footlights in a most reckless
manner.
With every shot the ruffian smashed a lamp.
Men shouted, women screamed and there were symptoms of a panic.
Regardless of the danger from flying bullets, Frank Merriwell leaped to
the front of the stage.
"Keep your seats, ladies and gentlemen!" he cried, clearly and
distinctly. "That ruffian shall be taken care of at once."
"Whoop!" roared Bill Dyer, as he blazed away. "Who'll take care of me?"
"I will!"
Over the footlights Frank vaulted, striking in the aisle. Straight
toward the desperado he bounded.
"Hold up!" shouted Dyer--"hold up, or by mighty, I'll perforate yer
hide!"
But Frank did not hold up. He rushed upon the ruffian, clutched him,
whirled him about, rushed him down the aisle.
Dyer tried to squirm round.
"I'll shoot ye full of holes!" he howled.
As Frank reached the rear of the hall, he found the man's clothes were
beginning to give way. Dyer might twist about in a moment.
At one side was a window. Frank hustled the fellow toward it, lifted
him off his feet, gave him a swing into the air, cast him headlong at
it.
Crash--jangle!
Through the window the fellow plunged, uttering a howl of dismay and
fear, and disappeared from view. The broken glass came rattling down,
but Dyer was gone.
Frank hurried back to the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried, his voice ringing out clear and calm,
"if you will resume your seats, I think the play will go on without
further interruption. The party who made the disturbance has just gone
out, and I do not think there is anyone else present who will try to
fill his place and follow his example."
A moment of silence, and then a terrific burst of applause. Men shouted
their admiration, stamping and clapping their hands. Women, also,
showed in all possible ways their appreciation of this courageous act.
In a few moments all were seated again. Other lamps were brought to
restore the broken ones, and the play continued.
And it seemed that Frank Merriwell played his part even better than
before the interruption.
It is needless to say that he received an ovation and a curtain call at
the end of the act. He came out with the leading lady, and they were
cheered wildly.
But not a complimentary word did he receive from the lips of Roscoe
Havener when it was all over.