CHAPTER XVIAUSTIN DEMAREST, ACTOR.
As Dick settled down on one side of the cozy little table near one of the windows and unfolded his napkin he felt a pleasant glow of satisfaction stealing over him. Short as was their acquaintance, he already felt a distinct liking for the man opposite him, whose handsome face still impressed him with the odd sensation of looking into a mirror and seeing his own countenance reflected there.
The fellow was very evidently a gentleman by birth and breeding. That had been plain from the first moment of their unconventional meeting. His manners were unexceptionable, and he had a certain air of polished refinement which was manifest to Merriwell’s keen perception in a dozen unobtrusive ways.
But more than all else the Yale man was attracted by the other’s manner of talking. Whimsical, half bantering, almost careless, there was yet about it an undercurrent of seriousness, which gave the barest hint of the real man beneath that disguising mask and made Dick eager for a more thorough knowledge of the character which he felt would prove more interesting by far than that of the majority of men.
Demarest picked up the card and ordered luncheon with the swiftness and taste of a connoisseur. He evidently had the rare art of selecting an attractive meal without spending a half hour at it. Then, folding his arms loosely, he leaned forward.
“Let’s begin at the beginning,” he said with twinkling eyes. “That sounds a little unnecessary, I know, but so few people really do begin a story where they ought. Probably you’ve noticed it, though. For instance, I am strongly tempted to plunge headfirst into the maelstrom of my troubles, and it is only by a strong effort of will that I bring myself to begin where I ought to lead you gradually thence to a consideration of the worst.”
While he was talking, Dick became conscious of the remarkable beauty and purity of his voice. His tones were rather low, and he spoke with just a hint of the fascinating Southern drawl; but every syllable was clear and distinct, and now and then there was a sudden raising or lowering of the pitch which had a distinctly dramatic effect. Merriwell found himself thinking what an admirable actor the man would make, if his histrionic ability only matched his voice. He was consequently almost startled when Demarest went on:
“Know, kind second self, that I am an actor. From my earliest days I longed to tread the magic boards and pour out my soul to vast applauding audiences through the medium of our immortal dramatists. At the age of twelve I had learned the parts ofHamletandBrutus. Can you fancy it? Two years later I had built a puppet stage in the attic of our country home and organized a company of which I was, of course, the star. In times of need and scarcity of talent, I have been known to play several parts in one performance. The admission to those matchless performances was, I recollect, a penny. You will perceive that those were the good old days before the trust came upon us and before the régime of the ubiquitous ticket speculator.”
Dick smiled appreciatively. There was something fascinating in the fellow’s whimsical, airy manner.
“But why linger on those far-away times?” Demarest went on quickly. “I only touch upon them that you may see beyond peradventure that I was destined for the stage. Sad to say, my esteemed family thought otherwise. What was cute and cunning in a child became mad folly—in their estimation—when I reached the age of manhood and still persisted in my determination. I haunted the theatre, breathing in the indescribable atmosphere of the place as if it were the nectar and ambrosia of the gods. Then my people became seriously alarmed and packed me off to Cambridge. At first I was in despair and planned to run away, but in the end I stuck it out and I have always been thankful. Unknown to my family, who thought I was following the old-fashioned, stereotyped course, I specialized in elocution, English literature, and the modern languages, which have been of inestimable service to me ever since.”
He paused, as the waiter appeared with the first course and deftly placed it before the two men. Dick was much interested in the recital.
“Of course you persisted in your determination to go on the stage,” he said quickly. “I imagine you had a rather strenuous time after you graduated.”
Demarest sighed and made an expressive gesture with his shapely, brown hands.
“Precisely,” he returned. “Over that let us draw a veil. I won out in the end, but it was only by a display of the utmost firmness. My father called it pigheadedness. To this day they are not reconciled, though I fancy they are beginning to be resigned.
“I took a course in the best dramatic school in New York, and, when I left that, got a minor position in the company of one of our leading actor dramatists. It was the merest trifle. I think I had barely half a dozen lines, but I was rejoiced, for it was a foothold. I had reached the bottom rung of the ladder up which I meant to climb to the very top. I worked hard. Before the company left New York I had mastered half a dozen rôles and was letter-perfect. I had a fancy that I could not improve on several of them, but my chance did not come until we were playing in Chicago, where the leading juvenile was suddenly seized with appendicitis. He had no understudy—happily for me. I went at once to Mr. Manton and boldly asked for the part. To my astonishment, almost without word, he agreed to try me out at a rehearsal. I found out afterward that he had been keeping an eye on me ever since I entered the company. He was the best friend I ever had.”
He stopped, took a few sips of his bouillon, and leaned back in his chair.
“You made good?” Dick questioned eagerly. “But of course you must have.”
“Thanks to Mr. Manton, I did,” returned Demarest. “He took infinite pains with me, as he always did with any one he thought worth the trouble. I kept that part for the remainder of the season, and the next fall I had one almost as good, though of a totally different sort. Then came my patron’s sudden death. It was a terrible blow to me, quite apart from the fact that I was thrown out of a job; for I had grown to be amazingly fond of him. But I had little time for repining. I had to find something to do and it did not prove to be so easy as I had supposed. It was then that I had my first experience with the so-called theatrical trust, the members of which control many of the companies and theatres, in this country.
“At last I landed a job, but it was a good deal of a come-down both in salary and importance. But even under their auspices I kept on going slowly upward until I reached a point which would have contented most men. Perhaps it should have contented me, but I knew I hadn’t reached the very top, and that I was determined to do, or perish in the attempt.
“About that time—which was last fall, to be explicit—I suddenly decided to write a play. The germ had been in my mind for a long period, but I lacked the time to follow it out. Happily the company disbanded earlier than usual last spring, and I at once set to work on my pet idea. I succeeded even better than I had hoped, for the play was good stuff and the leading part a crackajack.”
He paused and smiled at Merriwell.
“This is the point where you step upon the stage,” he went on. “It’s taken a long time to get there, hasn’t it?”
Dick’s face was full of puzzled curiosity.
“You are the hero of the play,” Demarest explained, with twinkling eyes.
“I?” gasped the Yale man. “I don’t understand.”
The actor pushed aside his salad and rested one arm lightly on the table.
“It’s this way,” he said, in his low, musical voice. “Though I had never met you, I had heard a lot about you from mutual friends and had seen you more than once on the diamond and gridiron. Consequently, when I decided that the play should be one of college life with the scene laid in New Haven, I felt that you would make an admirable character for the leading man. Of course, I ran you in under a different name, but I took the liberty of using a good many of your characteristics, and while I wrote I had you constantly in mind. I hope you don’t object, for it was rather cheeky.”
Merriwell laughed.
“Why, no, I don’t mind; but I’m afraid you’ve been stung. There’s nothing of the hero about me.”
“Oh, modesty, thou rare and precious quality!” murmured Demarest. “I’ve made a hero of you, then, against your will. When you’ve read the play you will see yourself in a different light. But I suppose by this time you, are wondering where my troubles come in.”
“A little,” Dick confessed. “So far your career seems to have been an unqualified success.”
“Listen, and you shall hear the dire story. Having the play, it never occurred to me that I could fail to find an opening. Plenty of actors with no more ability than I have been advanced to stellar rôles. That sounds conceited, but it isn’t. It’s a fact. But when I approached my managers, Buffer and Lane, with the proposition, they turned me down. Said the play was all right and wanted to buy it, but wouldn’t give me the leading part. They wanted that for one of their pets. Of course, I refused to let them have it and went to another firm, who were not supposedly connected with Buffer and Lane.
“It was the same story there. Nothing doing for me. I tried still another man with the same result, and then I got mad. If they wouldn’t bring me out I’d produce the play myself. I knew it would make a hit if it got a chance, and I had lately received a legacy from my grandmother, which was enough to cover all initial expenses of the production. So I went blithely on my way, had the scenery done, engaged the company, got the costumes made. I went to one of the independent managers in New York and got him to promise to put me on at his theatre providing the play tried out successfully. And he insisted that the opening performance should be given in New Haven. Of course, he was right. College men are the best critics in the world, and if a play, especially of this sort, succeeds here, it will go anywhere.”
Dick nodded understandingly.
“Of course,” he agreed quickly. “What’s your trouble, then? Why don’t you produce it at one of the small theatres?”
Demarest shrugged his shoulders.
“Simply because Buffer and Lane object, and the trust, booking Buffer and Lane’s companies, has lent an acquiescent ear. They absolutely refuse to give me a single date at either place. They say every night is booked for the remainder of the season.”
“What nonsense!” Merriwell exclaimed. “Surely there must be some open nights.”
“Of course there are,” Demarest returned quickly. “But not for yours truly. Don’t you see their game? If they can prevent my appearing in New Haven, they figure that I won’t get a show anywhere, and then they probably imagine that I’ll crawl and let them have the play.”
Dick’s face flushed and his eyes flashed angrily.
“What a lot of sharks they must be!” he exclaimed. “By Jove! I wish you could find some place they don’t control and beat them out at their own game.”
“You can’t wish it any more fervently than I do,” Demarest returned seriously.
“Have you tried the Strand?” Merriwell asked presently.
The actor nodded.
“Yes, and was politely but firmly turned down.”
For a few minutes there was silence. Demarest toyed with his ice, while Merriwell gazed thoughtfully at the tablecloth. Suddenly he raised his head and his eyes brightened.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed eagerly. “The old Concert Hall. I’ll bet none of the New York managers control that!”
Demarest looked dubious.
“The Concert Hall!” he echoed. “But that’s got a—a—well, a reputation, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has,” Dick admitted, “but I don’t see why that should stand in your way. If it was made clear that you were unable to bring out a play at any of the other houses, I don’t think people would stay away on account of the reputation of that house. Certainly the fellows wouldn’t. They go to see everything in the nature of college plays which comes to town. I admit that, more often than not, they go with the idea of picking flaws in the piece, but if it’s what you say it is, it ought to succeed. At any rate, you’d have your audience, and it would be up to you to do the rest.”
Demarest’s eyes brightened and he nodded emphatically.
“You can trust me for that,” he said decidedly. “All I want is the audience. The play’s all right. Buffer and Lane would never have made an offer for it if it hadn’t been pretty good. I don’t know but that idea of yours will prove a life saver, Merriwell. I was just about at my wit’s end, but you’ve put new heart into me.”
Summoning the waiter, he paid the check, and they walked out to the lobby.
“I believe I’ll go down there right away,” Demarest said, after a moment’s consideration. “It’s the only chance left, and I have got to decide one way or another at once. It isn’t fair for me to keep the company on a string any longer if there’s not going to be an opportunity of opening here. Won’t you come along with me? You’ve started the thing going, and it’s only fair to see me through.”
“Of course I will,” Dick said quickly. “I’m so keen about it, I don’t want to miss a single trick.”
Getting into their coats, they hurried out of the hotel and five minutes later had reached the old Concert Hall. It was a house of good size and in its prime had been the scene of many well-known productions, but for years having been given over to vaudeville, moving pictures, and shows of a certain grade, it was in a wretched state of dinginess.
Demarest was almost discouraged as he stood in the centre of the orchestra and looked about him. The place seemed utterly impossible, but presently his trained eye took in the various good points, which included an ample stage, though, at present, it was cluttered with odds and ends and backed with faded, crude, fearfully painted scenery.
“Pretty bad, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I can’t imagine a high-grade audience consenting to spend three hours here.”
“All the same,” Dick said quickly, “a little work will make a wonderful improvement. How’s the stage? Is it big enough?”
“Plenty. My sets will fit all right, but I shudder to think what that drop curtain looks like.”
He smiled wryly as he glanced up at the rolled-up curtain.
“I’ve never seen it, but I should imagine it was the limit,” Merriwell answered. “Couldn’t it be painted over, or something like that?”
“I suppose so.”
After another searching look around, Demarest led the way through a door back of the boxes to the stage itself. It certainly was dilapidated, and the dressing rooms were cramped and bad, but the young actor was at his wit’s end; and when he left the place an hour later he had engaged the house for Thursday night of that week, had the signed lease in his pocket and, more than that, had paid the money down. He had learned to leave nothing to chance. He had a feeling that the moment the members of the trust learned of the step he had taken they would do their best to prevent his opening even at the Concert Hall, and he was determined that they should not succeed.
That afternoon was a busy one. Before dark, Demarest had engaged an army of cleaners, scrubwomen, and painters, to report the first thing in the morning at the theatre. He had gone to the printer’s and ordered special paper printed in which was stated that, owing to the impossibility of obtaining a date at any other theatre, Austin Demarest, the talented young actor who had done such good work in the productions of the late Richard Manton, and latterly under the management of Buffer and Lane, was forced to bring out his new drama of college life, “Jarvis of Yale,” at the Concert Hall, which had been especially renovated and redecorated for the occasion.
These bills were to be spread broadcast on the boards all over the city the next morning, and when Demarest reached the hotel toward five o’clock he had reason to be thoroughly satisfied with the afternoon’s work.
Merriwell had accompanied him on his rounds through the city. His interest and enthusiasm were wrought to a high pitch, and his suggestions on various points had been of much service to the actor.
“It certainly was a lucky moment when I ran you down this morning,” Demarest said, as they dropped down in some chairs in the lobby. “I was simply up against a dead wall, and now things seem to be coming around all right, thanks to your advice and suggestions. I really think we’ll be able to make a halfway decent place out of the old barn. Of course it won’t be anything like one of the other houses, but it will be clean.”
“And the best part of it is that you will get ahead of the fellows who have tried to keep you under,” Dick said quickly. “It makes me hot under the collar every time I think of the way they’ve tried to keep you down so that they can get the play for themselves. By the way, old fellow, I hope you have a copy of it here. I’m no end anxious to read it.”
“And I want you to,” Demarest returned emphatically. “I want your critical opinion of it. I expect there’s a lot of places in it where you can suggest improvements. I’ll give you a copy before you go to-night, and you can read it and let me know what you think of it in the morning.”
As he spoke, he picked up a newspaper which lay on the next chair and glanced carelessly down the columns. Suddenly he stiffened and drew a quick breath.
“Blazes!” he burst out the next instant.
“What’s the matter?” Dick asked quickly.
Demarest’s face was set and a little pale. He was evidently keeping a grip on himself only by a great effort.
“Look at that!” he cried, extending the paper. “Just look at that, will you? If that isn’t a put-up job, I’d like to know what you’d call it.”
Dick snatched the paper from his nervous fingers and bent over the page. As he read the paragraph which the actor had pointed out, his eyes narrowed and a frown appeared on his forehead.
“Friday—Arcadian Theatre,” he murmured swiftly, “first production on any stage—John Tennant’s great drama of college life, ‘Fenwick of Yale’—management Ralph Bryton.”
“Great Scott!” Merriwell exclaimed, looking up swiftly. “They’re trying to get ahead of you! Trying to cut you out by producing a college play with almost exactly the same name! What a dirty trick!”
“Read the rest of it!” Demarest exclaimed angrily.
Unable to contain himself, he took the paper from Dick’s hand.
“Listen: ‘Great football scene. Nothing like it ever shown on the stage.’ My scene, Merriwell, I’ll wager anything! ‘Tremendously strong third act.’ My third act is the climax of the play! ‘The whole play from start to finish is so true to life, and so filled with the atmosphere of a real college town, that the spectator will find it hard to believe he is not watching a concrete segment taken directly from the life in the greatest university in America. The management has been fortunate in securing the services of the following actors and actresses for this important production.’”
Crumpling the paper in a shapeless mass, Demarest tossed it angrily aside.
“I’d be willing to take my oath, Merriwell,” he said bitterly, “that those villains have stolen the very plot of my play; or, if they haven’t, they’ve got something which follows as close on the lines of ‘Jarvis, of Yale,’ as they dared, and still be within the law. They open Friday, you see. I did not intend having my first night until next Monday, until we got the Concert Hall to-day, so they thought they’d get ahead of me. Great Scott, man! If they put their play on first, there wouldn’t be a handful come to my opening. It would be the greatest frost you ever saw.”
“But you’re all right,” Dick said eagerly. “You open Thursday. They’ll be the ones to get the frost.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Demarest said, in a worried tone. “People seeing a college play billed at the Arcadian for Friday are not likely to go to such a hole as the Concert Hall the night before for practically the same thing. They’ll think that I am the one who is copying their play, and Ralph Bryton will do his best to have that impression circulated. He hates me like poison and has been the one more responsible than any one else for the trust turning me down.”
Suddenly the actor gave a start.
“The paper!” he cried. “I never thought! They’ll get theirs out ahead of ours, and there won’t be a square foot of boarding left by the time mine are printed in the morning.”
“But they don’t know about what you’ve done to-day,” Dick objected. “They don’t know you’ve hired the Concert Hall.
“They’ll find out quick enough when they go to Lawford in the morning,” Demarest said despairingly. “He’ll tell them about my bills. The printer won’t have them ready until ten o’clock, and they’ll pay Lawford a bonus to put theirs up instead of mine. I know them and their tricks. And if the town isn’t well papered, we might as well give up on the spot.”