CHAPTER XIXTHE RAGE OF RALPH BRYTON.
A good many people in New Haven were surprised next morning when they read the bills announcing the production of an apparently decent play at the old Concert Hall. Some of the older inhabitants harked back to the good old days, when that was the only theatre in town, and were thereby moved to read the bill to the very end, thus becoming interested in the contest between the young actor-manager and the trust, which was exactly what Demarest wanted.
John Lawford, the billposter, was more than surprised. He was puzzled, perplexed, and furiously angry. He saw at once that Demarest had stolen a march on him, and he did his best to nullify the advantage gained, by covering the boards as swiftly as possible with the announcements of the Arcadian production. Although he had made a verbal agreement with the young actor to give his paper space, he was able to slide out of it because there had been no written contract, and he dared not disobey the emphatic commands of Ralph Bryton, on whom his bread and butter depended.
But all this took time. It was nearly noon before he had obliterated the greater part of the work of the Yale students last night, and a good many people had seen the original bills, and read them through. Their interest was only stimulated when they noticed them, one by one, being covered by the announcements of the trust. It seemed to bear out Demarest’s statement that he was being hounded by the syndicate men, and a good many citizens decided on the spot to attend the performance of “Jarvis of Yale,” and see what it was like.
While Lawford was working so hard, Austin Demarest was putting in some equally effective licks. Bright and early he started out with two boys and a quantity of lithographing, his regular paper, and in a very short time had obtained points of vantage in all the important shop windows, for which he paid on the spot, and about eleven he returned to the hotel empty-handed, but with a feeling of intense satisfaction at having circumvented Ralph Bryton effectually.
He had scarcely entered the lobby before his eyes fell upon that gentleman himself, and he saw at once that the representative of the trust was not in the best sort of humor. He was striding up and down the floor, pulling his heavy mustache, and scowling fiercely under beetling brows.
He was a man of about forty, heavily built, and a little inclined toward corpulency. His features were good, but his expression was domineering, as if he were accustomed to have his own way, and would fly into a passion when thwarted.
He had slept late that morning, secure in the consciousness that he had done a good day’s work, and effectually prevented the man he hated from having any sort of a success in New Haven, even if he once secured a foothold.
After a leisurely breakfast, he took a stroll down the street, and his astonishment and anger can better be imagined than described when his eyes fell upon the announcement which graced the board in front of the Arcadian Theatre. Lawford had not yet reached that part of the city.
Bryton stormed and raged, and even went so far as to try and tear the paper off, but the paste had been well mixed, and his efforts were in vain.
Fairly foaming at the mouth, he dashed back to the hotel, and tried to get Lawford on the telephone, but no one answered him. He had just come away from the booth after a second attempt when his eyes fell upon the smiling face of Austin Demarest, and he promptly crossed the lobby, and confronted the young actor.
“You young blackguard!” he frothed. “How dare you put up posters in front of my theatre? How dare you use any of the boards which I control for your rotten paper?”
Demarest’s eyes narrowed.
“Just keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Bryton,” he said coldly. “I suppose it is rather difficult for you to behave like a gentleman, but a little more of such talk as that, and I’ll have to hand you something.”
The older man glared at his antagonist, and his face grew purple, but he managed to keep a grip on his temper, for he realized that his anger had carried him farther than he had meant.
“You’ve no right to use the boards in this city, which I control,” he said, in a calmer tone.
“I wasn’t aware that you controlled any of them,” Demarest returned coolly. “I labored under the impression that they were the property of John Lawford, with whom I made arrangements early yesterday afternoon to post my paper.”
Bryton gasped.
“But I told him not——” he began, and then stopped abruptly.
“Exactly,” put in the actor. “You ordered him to throw me down after he had explicitly agreed to do my work. That’s like you, Bryton. You can’t blame me for taking things into my own hands.”
Bryton’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Much good it will do you!” he snapped. “By noon your stuff will be covered.”
“Just the same, my purpose will have been accomplished,” Demarest smiled tauntingly. “People will have all morning to see the announcements, and then they will wonder why your paper is plastered over them. I shall take care that they find out. I have a friend or two on the New Haven press. You slipped up on the shop windows, didn’t you?”
His voice held a note of malicious satisfaction. The older man gave a sudden start.
“Lawford was to go around after——”
“Too late,” the actor returned quickly. “I have the best locations cinched. They’re paid for, and an agreement signed. If any of them try to take out my lithographs, or cover them up with yours, I’ll sue for breach of contract.”
If looks could kill, Demarest would have been slain on the spot by the ferocious glare from the older man’s eyes. Bryton knew that he had suffered a serious check, for the window advertising had always been considered of equal or greater importance than the billboards.
He realized, however, that he could accomplish nothing by going off his head, so he made a great effort, and managed to get control of his temper.
“After all, I don’t know why I’m going to all this trouble,” he said sarcastically. “You’re a fool if you think anybody will go to the Concert Hall. Why, the place is rotten!”
“That’s my business,” Demarest retorted. “I rather think if you drop in to the opening Thursday night you’ll be surprised. But I really must tear myself away. This has been a great pleasure, and I trust I shall see you again.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel, and started toward the door. The next minute he stopped and looked back.
“Can’t I give you a couple of seats for Thursday?” he smiled. “I should be delighted to have your critical opinion of the performance.”
“Bah!” snarled Bryton, his face purpling dangerously.
The young actor shrugged his shoulders.
“Too bad you’re feeling that way this morning,” he said airily. “You really ought to take something—a bromo seltzer might do.”
Bryton gazed loweringly after the graceful figure of the young man as he disappeared through the door.
“I’ll get you yet, my young cockerel!” he muttered fiercely. “You think you’ve got the best of Ralph Bryton, but you’re mistaken. You won’t crow so loud before I’m through with you.”