CHAPTER XXIIOUT OF A CLEAR SKY.
Dick Merriwell was rather surprised to get a note from Demarest—the latter had not been able to reach him on the telephone—saying that he had been unexpectedly called to New York for the day, and asking Dick if he would not keep an eye on the workmen at the theatre that afternoon, if possible.
This Merriwell was, of course, very ready to do. He made three trips down there before going to the field, and found matters progressing as well as could be expected.
He was amused, and, for an instant, surprised, at being mistaken for Demarest, but he did not disabuse the men of their error. It would be just as well for them to think that he was the actor. They would perhaps work the better while he was looking on. Knowing the work which had to be done, he was able to straighten out several doubtful matters, and when he stopped again on his way home from practice, he was more than pleased at the strides they had made during his absence. The place was neat as a pin, and only a few more hours’ work was necessary to finish everything up.
He rather expected that Demarest would call him up that evening, but no message came. Finally, about half-past eight, he got the hotel on the wire, and found that the actor had not returned.
“He’ll probably get the early train in the morning,” he said to himself. “I’ll hear from him then.”
Having no lecture until ten o’clock, he spent the time getting up back work. He was just slipping into his coat to leave the room when the telephone bell rang insistently, and, stepping over to the instrument, he took down the receiver.
“Is this Mr. Merriwell?” came in a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Miss Gray—Miss Marion Gray. I’m dreadfully worried about Mr. Demarest. Two trains are in, and he hasn’t appeared. The rehearsal is set for eleven, and I don’t know what to do. I phoned Hemingway’s office, and they said he hadn’t been there since last night, late. Could you—would you come over to the hotel for a few minutes? You see, there’s no one I can get to advise me what to do, and I knew you were Mr. Demarest’s friend, so I thought——”
The sweet voice trailed off in a questioning silence.
“Certainly, I’ll come, Miss Gray,” Merriwell answered promptly. “Be over in three minutes.”
Hanging up the receiver, he took up his hat and left the rooms.
“I don’t understand it,” he murmured, as he ran downstairs. “He should have been here two hours ago. Great Scott. I hope nothing’s happened to him. If he didn’t show up in time for the performance, everything would be ruined. But he must show up—he will!”
Flinging open the outer door, he almost fell over a telegraph boy. His heart gave a sudden throb of fear.
“Merriwell live here?” inquired the boy.
“Yes,” Dick said quickly. “That’s my name. Give it to me.”
He snatched the ominous yellow missive from the other’s hand, and tore it open in breathless haste. The boy saw his face pale suddenly, and heard him draw his breath swiftly as his eyes flew rapidly over the crowded lines on the single sheet. But experience had calloused him to such sights as these, and, eager to be gone, he drawled out:
“Any answer?”
“No,” Dick said, in a strange voice; “none.”
The boy departed, whistling carelessly, but Merriwell still stood on the stone steps, gazing blankly at the paper in his hand. Presently he drew one hand across his forehead in a bewildered manner.
“I can’t!” he breathed. “I could never do it in this world! What is he thinking of?”
He turned mechanically and went back to his room.
Dropping down in a chair, he spread the telegram out on his knee, and read it aloud.
“Arrested here on absurd charge. Cannot be tried until to-morrow. Put-up job to hold me, and ruin performance. You must take my part, and save play. Otherwise I shall be ruined.Jarvisis really you. If you can only learn the lines it will be all right. Business will take care of itself. Do this as you love me, Richard, and I shall be your debtor forever. Don’t tell a soul where I am. I can’t afford to have my name smirched, even by false charge.
Austin.”
For a moment or two Dick sat looking at the paper blankly. Then he suddenly crumpled it into a ball, and thrust it into his pocket. At least, that was what he meant to do, but, instead of going into the pocket, it slipped through the slit in his overcoat, and lodged in the chair seat, close against one of the arms.
The next moment Merriwell had sprung to his feet, and was striding back and forth across the room.
The prospect which had at first appalled him was gradually becoming more reasonable, more possible, as he recovered from the suddenness of the shock, and swiftly regained his poise and self-control. He had a remarkably retentive memory, and felt that if he put his mind to it, excluding every other thing, he might be able to get the part before night, or possibly even in time for a hasty dress rehearsal that afternoon.
As for doing anything more than that, he would have to trust to luck. He had no idea what Demarest’s conception was of the character ofLance Jarvis. All he could do would be to forget that he was acting, and simply be himself. It was the only way by which the young actor’s reputation could be saved, and his success assured; for, if the performance did not come off on Thursday, Dick had a feeling that Ralph Bryton would see that it was indefinitely postponed. He had seen enough of the man’s methods not to realize that no stone would be left unturned to thwart Demarest.
Presently he yanked off his overcoat, and tossed it on a chair.
“I’ll do it!” he muttered. “I’ve got to do it! There’s no other way out!”
Then, springing to the telephone, he called up the New Haven House, and asked for Miss Gray. In a moment he heard her voice at the other end of the wire.
“This is Mr. Merriwell, Miss Gray,” he said quickly. “I’ve heard from Austin. He’s unavoidably detained, and cannot get here before two o’clock. Can the dress rehearsal be postponed until then, do you think?”
She gave a gasp of relief, which was almost a sob.
“Yes, of course,” she said swiftly. “That will give us time enough to get through before the evening performance. Oh, I’m so glad everything is right with him! I was so afraid something had happened. You know, Bryton would stop at nothing to prevent this opening.”
“Yes, I understood that from Austin,” Merriwell returned quietly. “But I don’t see what he can do now. You’ll have every one at the theatre at two, will you?”
“Surely. Thank you so much, Mr. Merriwell, and do forgive me for putting you to so much trouble.”
“It hasn’t been any trouble at all,” Dick assured her. “I was terribly worried about Austin myself, but everything will be all right now. If you don’t mind, I won’t come over just now. I have some rather important work to do, but I’ll meet you later, I hope.”
“Of course. You must come behind the scenes to-night, and meet the company. Thank you again. Good-by.”
As he hung up the receiver, a whimsical smile flashed into Merriwell’s face.
“Yes, I certainly expect to come behind the scenes, and meet the company,” he murmured. “I’m glad she didn’t ask any more questions. As it was, I escaped without telling an actual untruth. I suppose Demarest is wise in not wanting any one to know. It would probably break them all up; but I wonder if I can possibly keep up the deception. Gee! It makes me cold all over to think about it! Just have to trust to luck, I reckon. Now for it.”
Snatching up the manuscript of the play, he dragged a chair close to the window, and started to work.
In something over an hour, he got up, and, dropping the play, began to walk the floor, reeling off the part at lightning speed. When he came to the end of the first act, he gave a sigh of relief.
“One gone,” he muttered. “Pretty superficial, but it will have to do. I must see that the prompter is on the job to-night.”
When he next came to himself another act had been memorized, and it was half-past twelve. He had expected Brad to come in and interrupt, but happily the Texan did not appear. He must have gone directly to the dining hall from his last recitation.
By a quarter of two the last words had been committed, and Dick snatched overcoat and hat, stuffed the manuscript into his pocket, and flew downstairs.
Not ten minutes later the door was flung open, and Brad Buckhart entered hastily.
“Not here!” he exclaimed, with a swift look about the room. “Where in thunder is he? Cut everything this morning, without a word of explanation! Didn’t even show up to dinner! It sure beats everything, the bad ways he’s getting into!”
He plumped down in the chair beside the table, his brows drawn down into a scowl. A moment later he slid his hand down the arm of the chair, and drew forth a crumpled wad of yellow paper.
“Humph!” he grunted. “What’s this?”
Smoothing it out, he saw that it was a telegram, and, scarcely realizing what he was doing, his eyes took in the first line. After that nothing could have prevented his reading it to the very end, so interested was he.
“Suffering catamounts!” he exclaimed. “If that don’t beat all! Arrested! Wants Dick to take the part! Great tarantulas! That’s what the old galoot’s been up to all morning—learning the stuff. It’s sure it!”
For a moment he sat there in thoughtful silence. Then a slow smile broke out all over his face, and the next moment he threw back his head, and laughed till the tears came into his eyes.
“By the great horn spoon!” he cried. “That’s the best thing I ever heard. Think of old Dick going on the stage, and half of Yale College looking on, and not knowing it’s him. Gee! If we don’t have a circus to-night with Richard I’ll eat my hat!”
He broke off, and glanced again at the telegram.
“I can’t tell ’em, though, can I?” he muttered. “Dick never meant I should see this. But you bet the Untamed Maverick of the Pecos will have his share of joy out of it. You hear me talk!”