“Truer words were never spoken,” admitted Frank. “And still there are a few plays written to-day that do not depend on such devices. In order to catch the popular fancy, however, I have found it necessary to introduce ‘effects.’”
“You speak as one experienced in the construction of plays.”
“I have had some experience. I am about to start on the road with my own company and my own play.”
Of a sudden Frank seemed struck by an idea.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Did you say you were at liberty?”
“Just at present, yes.”
“Then, if I can get you, you are the very man I want.”
The old man shook his head.
“Your play can contain no part I would care to interpret,” he said, with apparent regret.
“But I think it is possible that you might be induced to play the part. I had a man for it, but I lost him. I was on my way to the Orpheum, to see if I could not find another to fill his place.”
“What sort of a part is it?” asked Burns, plainly endeavoring to conceal his eagerness.
“It is comedy.”
“What!” cried the old actor, aghast and horrified. “Wouldst offer me such a part? Dost think I—I who have playedHamlet,Brutus,LearandOthello—would stoop so low? ‘This is the most unkindest cut of all!’”
“But there is money in it—good, sure money. I have several thousand dollars to back me, and I am going out with my piece to make or break. I shall keep it on the road several weeks, at any cost.”
The old actor shook his head.
“It cannot be,” he sadly said. “I am no comedian. I could not play the part.”
“If you will but dress as you are, if you will add a little that is fantastic to your natural acting, you can play the part. It is that of a would-be tragedian—a Shakespearian actor.”
“Worse and worse!” moaned the old man. “You would have me burlesque myself! Out upon you!”
“I will pay you thirty-five dollars a week and railroad expenses. How can you do better?”
“Thirty-fi——”
The old actor gasped for breath. He seemed unable for some moments to speak. It was plain that the sum seemed like a small fortune to him. At last his dignity and his old nature reasserted itself.
“Young man,” he said, “dost know what thou hast done? I—I am William Shakespeare Burns! A paltry thirty-five per week! Bah! Go to!”
“Well, I’ll make it forty, and I can get a hundred good men for that at this time of the season.”
The aged Thespian bowed his head. Slowly he spoke, again quoting:
“Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck to the heart of my mystery.”
“But the money, you seem to need that. Money is a good thing to have.”
“‘Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.’ It is true. Ah! but how can I thus lower myself?”
“As you have said, the good old days are past. It is useless to live for them. Live for the present—and the future. Money is base stuff, but we must have it. Come, come; I know you can do the part. We’ll get along splendidly.”
“‘Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.’ As Cassius saith, ‘Men at some time in their lives are masters of their fates;’ but I think for me that time is past. But forty dollars—ye gods!”
“It is better than reading to a scant dozen listeners at crossroads schoolhouses.”
“Ah, well! You take advantage of my needs. I accept. But I must have a dollar at once, with which to purchase that which will drown the shame my heart doth feel.”
“You shall have the dollar,” assured Frank. “Come along with us, and we will complete arrangements.”
So the old actor was borne away, outwardly sad, but inwardly congratulating himself on the greatest streak of luck he had come upon in many moons.
Frank Merriwell was determined to give a performance of his revised play in Denver for advertising purposes. He had the utmost confidence in “True Blue,” as he had rechristened the piece, but the report of his failure in Puelbo had spread afar in dramatic circles, being carried broadcast by the Eastern dramatic papers, and managers were shy of booking the revised version.
Some time before, after receiving the fortune from the Carson City Bank, Merry had made a fair and equal division, sending checks for their share to Browning, Diamond and Rattleton. Toots’ share he had been unable to forward, not knowing the address of the faithful darky, who had been forced to go forth into the world to win his way when Frank met with the misfortune that caused him to leave Yale.
And now came three letters from three Yale men. Diamond’s was brief.
“Dear Old Comrade: It is plain you are still a practical joker. Your very valuable (?) check on the First National of Denver received. I really do not know what to do with so much money! But I am afraid you are making a mistake by using a check on an existing bank. Why didn’t you draw one on ‘The First Sand Bank of Denver’? It would have served your purpose just as well.“Can’t write much now, as I am making preparations for vacation, which is only a month away. I’m afraid it will be a sorry vacation for me this year; not much like the last one. Then we were all together, and what times we did have at Fardale and in Maine! I’m blue to-night, old friend, and do not feel like writing. I fancy it has made me feel bluer than ever to read in theDramatic Reflectorof your unfortunate failure in Puelbo and the disbanding of your company after your backer deserted you. Hard luck, Frank—hard luck! All the fellows have been hoping you would make money enough to come back here in the fall, but all that is over now.“What are you doing? Can’t you find time to write to us and let us know? We are very anxious about you. I will write you again when I am more in the mood. Hoping your fortune may turn for the better, I remain,
“Dear Old Comrade: It is plain you are still a practical joker. Your very valuable (?) check on the First National of Denver received. I really do not know what to do with so much money! But I am afraid you are making a mistake by using a check on an existing bank. Why didn’t you draw one on ‘The First Sand Bank of Denver’? It would have served your purpose just as well.
“Can’t write much now, as I am making preparations for vacation, which is only a month away. I’m afraid it will be a sorry vacation for me this year; not much like the last one. Then we were all together, and what times we did have at Fardale and in Maine! I’m blue to-night, old friend, and do not feel like writing. I fancy it has made me feel bluer than ever to read in theDramatic Reflectorof your unfortunate failure in Puelbo and the disbanding of your company after your backer deserted you. Hard luck, Frank—hard luck! All the fellows have been hoping you would make money enough to come back here in the fall, but all that is over now.
“What are you doing? Can’t you find time to write to us and let us know? We are very anxious about you. I will write you again when I am more in the mood. Hoping your fortune may turn for the better, I remain,
“Always your friend,
“Always your friend,
“Jack Diamond.”
“Jack Diamond.”
Frank read this aloud to Hodge and Gallup in his room at the Metropole Hotel.
“Waal, by ginger!” exploded Ephraim. “What do yeou think of that?”
“Now you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you, Merry,” said Hodge.
“Well, I’ll be hanged if I don’t believe Diamond considers it a joke!” laughed Frank.
“Of course he does,” nodded Bart.
“Well, he is putting a joke on himself. He’ll be somewhat surprised when he discovers that.”
Ephraim began to grin.
“That’s so, by thutter!” he cried.
“Here is a letter from Rattleton,” said Merry, picking up another from the mail he had just received. “I wonder how he takes it?”
“Read it and find aout,” advised Gallup.
“A wise suggestion,” bowed Frank, with mock gravity, tearing it open.
This is what he read:
“Dear Merry: Cheese it! What do you take us for—a lot of chumps? We’re onto you! Eight thousand fiddlesticks! I’m going to have the check framed and hang it in my room. It will be a reminder of you.“Say, that was tough about your fizzle in Puelbo! It came just when we were hoping, you know. The fellows have been gathering at the fence and talking about you and your return to college since Browning came back and told us how you were making a barrel of money with your play. Now the report of your disaster is spread broadcast, and we know you cannot come back. It’s tough.“Diamond is in a blue funk. He hasn’t been half the man he was since you went away. Hasn’t seemed to care much of anything about studying or doing anything else, and, as a result, it is pretty certain he’ll be dropped a class.“But Diamond is not the only one. You know Browning was dropped once. He is too lazy to study, but, in order to keep in your class, he might have pulled through had you been here. Now it is known for an almost certain thing that he will not be able to pass exams, and you know what that means.“I’m not going to say anything about myself. It’s dull here. None of your friends took any interest in the college theatricals last winter, and the show was on the bum. The whole shooting match made a lot of guys of themselves.“Baseball has been dead slow, so far this season. We are down in the mud, with Princeton crowing. It takes you, Merry, to twist the Tiger’s tail! What was the matter? Everything. All the pitchers could do for us was to toss ’em up and get batted out of the box. The new men were not in it. They had glass arms, and the old reliables had dead wings. It was pitiful! I can’t write any more about it.“I’d like to see you, Frank! Would I? Ask me! Oh, say! don’t you think you can arrange it so you can come East this summer? Come and see me. Say, come and stay all summer with me at my home! We won’t do a thing but have a great time. Write to me and give me your promise you will come. Don’t you refuse me, old man.
“Dear Merry: Cheese it! What do you take us for—a lot of chumps? We’re onto you! Eight thousand fiddlesticks! I’m going to have the check framed and hang it in my room. It will be a reminder of you.
“Say, that was tough about your fizzle in Puelbo! It came just when we were hoping, you know. The fellows have been gathering at the fence and talking about you and your return to college since Browning came back and told us how you were making a barrel of money with your play. Now the report of your disaster is spread broadcast, and we know you cannot come back. It’s tough.
“Diamond is in a blue funk. He hasn’t been half the man he was since you went away. Hasn’t seemed to care much of anything about studying or doing anything else, and, as a result, it is pretty certain he’ll be dropped a class.
“But Diamond is not the only one. You know Browning was dropped once. He is too lazy to study, but, in order to keep in your class, he might have pulled through had you been here. Now it is known for an almost certain thing that he will not be able to pass exams, and you know what that means.
“I’m not going to say anything about myself. It’s dull here. None of your friends took any interest in the college theatricals last winter, and the show was on the bum. The whole shooting match made a lot of guys of themselves.
“Baseball has been dead slow, so far this season. We are down in the mud, with Princeton crowing. It takes you, Merry, to twist the Tiger’s tail! What was the matter? Everything. All the pitchers could do for us was to toss ’em up and get batted out of the box. The new men were not in it. They had glass arms, and the old reliables had dead wings. It was pitiful! I can’t write any more about it.
“I’d like to see you, Frank! Would I? Ask me! Oh, say! don’t you think you can arrange it so you can come East this summer? Come and see me. Say, come and stay all summer with me at my home! We won’t do a thing but have a great time. Write to me and give me your promise you will come. Don’t you refuse me, old man.
“Yours till death,
“Yours till death,
“Rattles.
“Rattles.
“Here’s another!” cried Frank. “If that doesn’t beat! Why, they all think those checks fakes!”
“As I said before,” said Hodge, “you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you.”
“I see,” nodded Frank. “It is giving me a chance to get a big joke on those fellows. They will drop dead when they learn those checks actually are good.”
“Waal, I should say yes!” nodded Ephraim. “Jest naow they’re kainder thinkin’ yeou are an object fer charity.”
“Here’s Browning’s letter.”
“Mr. Frank Merriwell, Millionaire and Philanthropist.“Dear Sir:I seize my pen in my hand, being unable to seize it with my foot, and hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your princely gift. With my usual energy and haste, I dash off these few lines at the rate of ten thousand words a minute, only stopping to rest after each word. After cashing your check with the pawnbroker, I shall use the few dollars remaining to settle in part with my tailor, who has insisted in a most ungentlemanly manner on the payment of his little bill, which has been running but a short time—less than two years, I think. The sordid greed and annoying persistence of this man has much embarrassed me, and I would pay him off entirely, if it were not that I wish to get my personal property out of my ‘uncle’s’ safe-deposit vault, where it has been resting for some time.“It is evident to me that you have money to burn in an open grate. That is great, as Griswold would say. And it was so kind of you to remember your old friends. The little hint accompanying each check that thus you divided the spoils of our great trip across the continent was not sufficient to deceive anyone into the belief that this was other than a generous act on your part and a free gift.“There is not much news to write, save that everybody is in the dumps and everything has turned blue. I suppose some of the others will tell you all about things, so that will save me the task, which you know I would intensely enjoy, as I do love to work. It is the joy of my life to labor. I spend as much time as possible each day working on a comfortable couch in my room; but I will confess that I might not work quite so hard if it was not necessary to draw at the pipe in order to smoke up.“When are you coming East? Aren’t you getting tired of the West? Why can’t you make a visit to Yale before vacation time? You would be received with greatéclat. Excuse my French. I have to fling it around occasionally, when I can’t think of any Latin or Greek. Why do you suppose Latin and Greek were invented? Why didn’t those old duffers use English, and save us poor devils no end of grinding?“Unfortunately, I have just upset the ink, and, having no more, I must quit.“Yours energetically,“Bruce Browning.”
“Mr. Frank Merriwell, Millionaire and Philanthropist.
“Dear Sir:I seize my pen in my hand, being unable to seize it with my foot, and hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your princely gift. With my usual energy and haste, I dash off these few lines at the rate of ten thousand words a minute, only stopping to rest after each word. After cashing your check with the pawnbroker, I shall use the few dollars remaining to settle in part with my tailor, who has insisted in a most ungentlemanly manner on the payment of his little bill, which has been running but a short time—less than two years, I think. The sordid greed and annoying persistence of this man has much embarrassed me, and I would pay him off entirely, if it were not that I wish to get my personal property out of my ‘uncle’s’ safe-deposit vault, where it has been resting for some time.
“It is evident to me that you have money to burn in an open grate. That is great, as Griswold would say. And it was so kind of you to remember your old friends. The little hint accompanying each check that thus you divided the spoils of our great trip across the continent was not sufficient to deceive anyone into the belief that this was other than a generous act on your part and a free gift.
“There is not much news to write, save that everybody is in the dumps and everything has turned blue. I suppose some of the others will tell you all about things, so that will save me the task, which you know I would intensely enjoy, as I do love to work. It is the joy of my life to labor. I spend as much time as possible each day working on a comfortable couch in my room; but I will confess that I might not work quite so hard if it was not necessary to draw at the pipe in order to smoke up.
“When are you coming East? Aren’t you getting tired of the West? Why can’t you make a visit to Yale before vacation time? You would be received with greatéclat. Excuse my French. I have to fling it around occasionally, when I can’t think of any Latin or Greek. Why do you suppose Latin and Greek were invented? Why didn’t those old duffers use English, and save us poor devils no end of grinding?
“Unfortunately, I have just upset the ink, and, having no more, I must quit.
“Yours energetically,
“Bruce Browning.”
“Well, it’s simply marvelous that he stuck to it long enough to write all that!” laughed Frank. “And he, like the others, thinks the check a fake.”
Hodge got up and stood looking sullenly out of the window.
“What’s the matter, Bart?” asked Merry, detecting that there was something wrong.
“Nothing,” muttered the dark-faced fellow.
“Oh, come! Was there anything in those letters you did not like?”
“No. It was something there was not in the letters.”
“What?”
“Not one of those fellows even mentioned me!” cried Hodge, fiercely whirling about. “I didn’t care a rap about Diamond and Rattleton, but Browning would have showed a trace of decency if he had said a word about me. He made a bad blunder and was forced to confess it, but I’ll bet he doesn’t think a whit more of me now.”
“Oh, you are too sensitive, old man. They did not even write anything in particular for news, and think how many of my friends at college they failed to mention.”
“Oh, well; they knew I was with you, and one of them might have asked for me. I hope you may go back to Yale, Merry, but wild horses could not drag me back there! I hate them all!”
“Hate them, Hodge?”
“Yes, hate them!” Bart almost shouted. “They are a lot of cads! There is not a whole man among them!”
Then he strode out of the room, giving the door a bang behind him.
Of course Frank made haste to reply to the letters of his college chums, assuring them that the checks were perfectly good, and adding that, although he had some reputation as a practical joker, he was not quite crazy enough to utter a worthless check on a well-known bank, as that would be a criminal act.
Frank mentioned Hodge, and, without saying so in so many words, gave them to understand that Bart felt the slight of not being spoken of in any of the letters from his former acquaintances.
One thing Frank did not tell them, and that was that he was on the point of starting out again with his play, having renamed it, and rewritten it, and added a sensational feature of the “spectacular” order in the view of a boat race between Yale, Harvard and Cornell.
Even though he was venturing everything on the success of the piece, Merry realized now better than ever before that no man was so infallible that he could always correctly foretell the fate of an untried play.
It is a great speculation to put a play on the road at large expense. The oldest managers are sometimes deceived in the value of a dramatic piece of property, and it is not an infrequent thing that they lose thousands of dollars in staging and producing a play in which they have the greatest confidence, but which the theater-going public absolutely refuses to accept.
Frank had been very confident that his second play would be a winner in its original form, but disaster had befallen it at the very start. He might have kept it on the road as it stood, for, at the very moment when he seemed hopelessly stranded without a dollar in the world, fortune had smiled upon him by placing in his hands the wealth which he had found in the Utah Desert at the time of his bicycle tour across the continent.
But Merry had realized that, in the condition in which it then stood, it was more than probable that the play would prove an utter failure should he try to force it upon the public.
This caused him to take prompt action. First he brought the company to Denver, holding all of them, save the two men who had caused him no small amount of trouble, namely, Lloyd Fowler and Charlie Harper.
Calmly reviewing his play at Twin Star Ranch, Frank decided that the comedy element was not strong enough in the piece to make it a popular success on the road; accordingly he introduced two new characters. It would be necessary, in order to produce the effect that he desired, to employ a number of “supers” in each place where the play was given, as he did not believe he would be warranted in the expense of carrying nonspeaking characters with him.
On his return to Denver Frank had hastened at once to look over the “mechanical effect” which had been constructed for him. It was not quite completed, but was coming on well, and, as far as Frank could see, had been constructed perfectly according to directions and plans.
Of course, one man had not done the work alone. He had been assisted by carpenters and scene painters, and the work had been rushed.
Merry got his company together and began rehearsing the revised play. His paper from Chicago came on, and examination showed that it was quite “up to the mark.” In fact, Havener, the stage manager, was delighted with it, declaring that it was the most attractive stuff he had seen in many years.
But for the loss of one of the actors he had engaged to fill one of the comedy parts, Merry would have been greatly pleased by the manner in which things moved along.
Now, however, he believed that in William Shakespeare Burns he had found a man who could fill the place left vacant.
Although Hodge had been ready enough to defend Burns from the young ruffians who were hectoring him on the street, he had little faith in the man as a comedian. Hodge could see no comedy in the old actor. To tell the truth, it was seldom that Hodge could see comedy in anything, and low comedy, sure to appeal to the masses, he regarded as foolish.
For another reason Hodge felt uncertain about Burns. It was plain that the aged tragedian was inclined to look on the wine “when it was red,” and Bart feared he would prove troublesome and unreliable on that account.
“I am done with the stuff!” Hodge had declared over and over. “On that night in the ruffians’ den at Ace High I swore never to touch it again, for I saw what brutes it makes of men. I have little confidence in any man who will drink it.”
“Oh, be a little more liberal,” entreated Frank. “You know there are men who drink moderately, and it never seems to harm them.”
“I know there are such men,” admitted Bart; “but it is not blood that runs in their veins. It’s water.”
“Not all men are so hot-blooded and impulsive as you and Jack Diamond.”
“Don’t speak of Diamond! I don’t think anything of that fellow. I am talking about this Burns. He is a sot, that’s plain. Drink has dragged him down so far that all the powers in the world cannot lift him up. Some night when everything depends on him, he will fail you, for he will be too drunk to play his part. Then you will be sorry that you had anything to do with him.”
“All the powers in this world might not be able to lift him up,” admittted Frank; “but there are other powers that can do so. I pity the poor, old man. He realizes his condition and what he has missed in life.”
“But the chances are that the audience will throw things at him when he appears as a comedian.”
“Instead of that, I believe he will convulse them with laughter.”
“Well, you have some queer ideas. We’ll see who’s right.”
Frank kept track of Burns, dealing out but little money to him, and that in small portions, so that the old actor could not buy enough liquor to get intoxicated, if he wished to do so.
The first rehearsal was called on the stage of the theater in Denver. Merry had engaged the theater for that purpose. The entire company assembled. Frank addressed them and told them that he was glad to see them again. One and all, they shook hands with him. Then Burns was called forward and introduced as the new comedian. At this he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms across his breast, and said:
“Ay! ‘new’ is the word for it, for never before, I swear, have I essayed a rôle so degraded or one that hath so troubled me by night and by day. Comedy, comedy, what sins are committed in thy name!”
Granville Garland nudged Douglas Dunton in the ribs, whispering in his ear:
“Behold your rival!”
“Methinks he intrudeth on my sacred territory,” nodded Dunton. “But he has to do it on the stage, and on the stage I am a villain. We shall not quarrel.”
Burns proved to be something of a laughing-stock for the rest of the company.
“He’s a freak,” declared Billy Wynne, known as “Props.”
“All of that,” agreed Lester Vance.
“I don’t understand why Merriwell should pick up such a creature for us to associate with,” sniffed Agnes Kirk. “But Merriwell is forever doing something freakish. Just think how he carried around that black tramp cat that came onto the stage to hoodoo us the first time we rehearsed this piece.”
“And there is the cat now!” exclaimed Vance, as the same black cat came walking serenely onto the stage.
“Yes, here is the cat,” said Frank, who overheard the exclamation. “She was called a hoodoo before. I have determined that she shall be a mascot, and it is pretty hard to get me to give anything up when I am determined upon it.”
“Well, I haven’t a word to say!” declared Agnes Kirk, but she looked several words with her eyes.
The rehearsal began and progressed finely till it was time for Burns to enter. The old actor came on, but when he tried to say his lines the words seemed to stick in his throat and choke him. Several times he started, but finally he broke down and turned to Frank, appealingly, saying, huskily:
“I can’t! I can’t! It is a mockery and an insult to the dead Bard of Avon! It’s no use! I give it up. I need the money, but I cannot insult the memory of William Shakespeare by making a burlesque of his immortal works!”
Then he staggered off the stage.
Late that evening, after the work and rehearsing of the day was over, Frank, Bart and Ephraim gathered in the room of the first-mentioned and discussed matters.
“I told you Burns was no good,” said Hodge, triumphantly, “I knew how it would be, but he showed up sooner than I expected. I suppose you will get rid of him in a hurry now?”
“I think not,” answered Merry, quietly.
“What?” cried Hodge, astounded. “You don’t mean to say you will keep him after what has happened?”
“I may.”
“Well, Frank, I’m beginning to believe the theatrical business has turned your head. You do not seem to possess the good sense you had once.”
“Is that so?” laughed Merry.
“Just so!” snapped Hodge.
“Oh, I don’t know! I rather think Burns will turn out all right.”
“After making such a fizzle to-day? Well, you’re daffy!”
“You do not seem to understand the man at all. I can appreciate his feelings.”
“I can’t!”
“I thought not. It must be rather hard for him, who has always considered himself a tragedian and a Shakespeare scholar, to burlesque the parts he has studied and loved.”
“Bah! That’s nonsense! Why, the man’s a pitiful old drunkard! You give him credit for too fine feelings.”
“And you do not seem to give him credit for any feelings. Even a drunkard may have fine feelings at times.”
“Perhaps so.”
“Perhaps so! I know it. It is drink that degrades and lowers the man. When he is sober, he may be kind, gentle and lovable.”
“Well, I haven’t much patience with a man who will keep himself filled with whisky.”
Frank opened his lips to say something, but quickly changed his mind, knowing he must cut Hodge deeply. He longed, however, to say that the ones most prone to err and fall in this life are often the harshest judges of others who go astray.
“I ruther pity the pore critter,” said Ephraim; “but I don’t b’lieve he’ll ever make ennyboddy larf in the world. He looks too much like a funeral.”
“That is the very thing that should make them laugh, when he has his make-up on. I have seen the burlesque tragedian overdone on the stage, so that he was nauseating; but I believe Burns can give the character just the right touch.”
“Well, if you firmly believe that, it’s no use to talk to you, for you’ll never change your mind till you have to,” broke out Hodge. “I have seen a sample of that in the way you deal with your enemies. Now, there was Leslie Lawrence——”
“Let him rest in peace,” said Frank. “He is gone forever.”
“An’ it’s a dinged good riddance!” said Gallup. “The only thing I’m sorry fer is that the critter escaped lynchin’!”
“Yes, he should have been lynched!” flashed Bart. “At the Twin Star Ranch now the poor girl he deserted is lying on a bed of pain, shot down by his dastardly hand.”
“He did not intend the bullet for her,” said Frank, quickly.
“No; but he intended it for you! It was a great case of luck that he didn’t finish you. If you had pushed the villain to the wall before that, instead of dealing with him as if he had the least instinct of a gentleman in his worthless body, you would have saved the girl from so much suffering.”
“She loves him still,” said Frank. “Her last words to me were a message to him, for she does not know he is dead beneath the quicksands of Big Sandy.”
“The quicksands saved him from the gallows.”
“An’ they took another ungrateful rascal along with him, b’gee!” said Ephraim, with satisfaction.
“Yes,” nodded Frank; “I think there is no doubt but Lloyd Fowler perished with Lawrence, for I fancied I recognized Fowler in the fellow who accompanied Lawrence that fatal night.”
“And Fowler was a drinking man, so I should think he would be a warning to you,” said Hodge. “I shouldn’t think you’d care to take another sot into the company.”
“You must know that there is as little resemblance between Fowler and Burns as there is between night and day.”
“Perhaps so, but Burns can drink more whisky than Fowler ever could.”
“And he is ashamed of himself for it. I have talked with him about it, and I know.”
“Oh, he made you believe so. He is slick.”
“He was not trying to deceive me.”
“So you think. He knows where his money comes from to buy whisky. It’s more than even chance that, when you are ready to start on the road, he will give you the slip.”
“He asked me to release him to-day.”
“And you refused?”
“I did. I urged him to stay with us.”
Hodge got up.
“That settles it!” he exclaimed. “Now I know theatricals have wrought your downfall! Your glory is fast departing.”
“Then let it depart!” laughed Frank. “You have been forced to confess yourself mistaken on other occasions; you may on this.”
“Good-night,” said Hodge, and he went out.
Ephraim grinned.
“Some fellows would say it’d be a gol-danged sensible thing fer yeou to git rid of that feller,” he said, nodding toward the door. “He’s gittin’ to be the greatest croaker I ever knew.”
“Hodge is getting worse,” admitted Frank, gravely. “I think the unfortunate end of his college course has had much to do with it. He broods over that a great deal, and it is making him sour and unpleasant. I can imagine about how he feels.”
“If he ever larfed he’d be more agreeable. Danged if I like a feller that alwus looks so sollum an’ ugly. Sometimes he looks as ef he could snap a spike off at one bite an’ not harf try.”
“Wait,” said Frank. “If I am successful with this play, I hope to go back to Yale in the fall and take Hodge with me. I think he is getting an idea into his head that his life career has been ruined at the very start, and that is making him bitter. I’ll take him back, run him into athletics, get his mind off such unpleasant thoughts, and make a new man of him.”
“Waal, I hope ye do,” said Gallup, rising and preparing to go. “There’s jest one thing abaout Hodge that makes me keer a rap fer him.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s ther way he sticks to yeou. Be gosh! I be’lieve he’d wade through a red-hot furnace to reach yeou an’ fight for yeou, if yeou was in danger!”
“I haven’t a doubt but he’d make the attempt,” nodded Frank.
“An’ he kin fight,” the Vermonter went on. “Aout at Ace High, when we was up against all them ruffians, he fought like a dozen tigers all rolled inter one. That’s ernnther thing that makes me think a little somethin’ of him.”
“Yes,” agreed Merry, “Bart is a good fighter. The only trouble with him is that he is too ready to fight. There are times when one should avoid a fight, if possible; but Hodge never recognizes any of those times. I never knew him to try to avoid a fight.”
“Waal,” drawled Ephraim, with a yawn, “I’m goin’ to bed. Good-night, Frank.”
“Good-night.”
Merry closed the door after Gallup and carefully locked and bolted it. Then he sat down, took a letter from his pocket, and read it through from beginning to end. When he had finished, he pressed the missive to his lips, murmuring:
“Elsie! Elsie! dear little sweetheart!”
For some time he sat there, thinking, thinking. His face flushed and paled softened and glowed again; sometimes he looked sad, and sometimes he smiled. Had a friend been there, he might have read Frank’s thoughts by the changing expressions on his face.
At last Merry put away the letter, after kissing it again, and, having wound up his watch, undressed and prepared for bed. His bed stood in a little alcove of the room, and he drew the curtains back, exposing it. Donning pajamas, he soon was in bed. Reaching out, he pressed a button, and—snap!—out went the gas, turned off by electricity.
Frank composed himself to sleep. The dull rumble of the not yet sleeping city came up from the streets and floated in at his open window. The sound turned after a time to a musical note that was like that which comes from an organ, and it lulled him to sleep.
For some time Merry seemed to sleep as peacefully as a child. Gradually the roaring from the streets became less and less. Frank breathed softly and regularly.
And then, without starting or stirring, he opened his eyes. He lay quite still and listened, but heard no sound at first. For all of this, he was impressed by a feeling that something was there in that room with him!
It was a strange, creepy, chilling sensation that ran over Frank. He shivered the least bit.
Rustle-rustle! It was the lightest of sounds, but he was sure he heard it.
Some object was moving in the room!
Frank remembered that he had closed and locked the door. Not only had he locked it, but he had bolted it, so that it could not be opened from the outside by the aid of a key alone.
What was there in that room? How had anything gained admittance?
Frank attempted to convince himself that it was imagination, but he was a youth with steady nerves, and he knew he was not given to imagining such things without cause.
Rustle—rustle!
There it was again! There was no doubt of it this time!
Something moved near the foot of the bed!
Still without stirring, Merriwell turned his gaze in that direction.
At the foot of the bed a dark shape seemed to tower!
Impressed by a sense of extreme peril, Frank shot his hand out of the bed toward the electric button on the wall.
By chance he struck the right button.
Snap!—up flared the gas.
And there at the foot of the bed stood a man in black, his face hidden by a mask.
The sudden up-flaring of the gas seemed to startle the unknown intruder and disconcert him for a moment. With a hiss, he started backward.
Bolt upright sat Frank.
Merry’s eyes looked straight into the eyes that peered through the twin holes in the mask.
Thus they gazed at each other some seconds.
There was no weapon in the hands of the masked man, and Merriwell guessed that the fellow was a burglar.
That was Frank’s first thought.
Then came another.
Why had the man sought the bed? Frank’s clothes were lying on some chairs outside the alcove, and in order to go through them it had not been necessary to come near the bed.
Then Merry remembered the feeling of danger that had come over him, and something told him this man had entered that room to do him harm. Somehow, Frank became convinced that the fellow had been creeping up to seize a pillow, fling himself on the bed, press the pillow over the sleeper’s face, and commit a fearful crime.
Even then Frank wondered how the man could have gained admittance to the room.
Up leaped the former Yale athlete; backward sprang the masked man. Over the foot of the bed Merry recklessly flung himself, dodging a hand that shot out at him, and placing himself between the man and the door.
As he bounded toward the door, Merriwell saw, with a feeling of unutterable amazement, that it was tightly closed and that the bolt was shot in place, just as he had left it.
He whirled about, with his back toward the door.
“Good-evening!” he said. “Isn’t this rather late for a call? I wasn’t expecting you.”
The man was crouching before him, as if to spring toward him, but Frank’s cool words seemed to cause further hesitation. A muttering growl came from behind the mask, but no words did the unknown speak.
“It is possible you dropped into the wrong room,” said Merry. “I trust you will be able to explain yourself, for you are in a rather awkward predicament. Besides that, you have hidden your face, and that does not speak well for your honest intentions.”
Without doubt, the intruder was astonished by Merriwell’s wonderful coolness. Although startled from slumber in such a nerve-shocking manner, Frank now seemed perfectly self-possessed.
Silence.
“You don’t seem to be a very sociable sort of caller,” said Merry, with something like a faint laugh. “Won’t you take off your mask and sit down a while.”
The youth asked the question as if he were inviting the stranger to take off his hat and make himself at home.
The man’s hand slipped into his bosom. Frank fancied it sought a weapon.
Now it happened that Merry had no weapon at hand, and he felt that he would be in a very unpleasant position if that other were to “get the drop” on him.
Frank made a rush at the stranger.
The man tried to draw something from his bosom, but it seemed to catch and hang there, and Merry was on him. The unknown tried to dodge, and he partly succeeded in avoiding Frank’s arms.
However, he did not get fully away, and, a second later, they grappled.
The man, however, had the advantage; for all that Frank had rushed upon him, he had risen partly behind Merry, after dodging. He clutched Frank about the waist and attempted to hurl him to the floor with crushing force.
Frank Merriwell was an expert wrestler, and, although taken thus at a disadvantage, he squirmed about and broke his fall, simply being forced to one knee.
“Now I have ye!” panted the man, hoarsely.
“Have you?” came from Frank’s lips. “Oh, I don’t know!”
There was a sudden upward heaving, and the ex-Yale athlete shot up to his feet.
But the man was on his back, and a hand came round and fastened on Merry’s throat with a terrible, crushing grip.
Frank realized that he was dealing with a desperate wretch, who would not hesitate at anything. And Merriwell’s life was the stake over which they were struggling!
Frank got hold of the man’s wrist and tore those fingers from his throat, although it seemed that they nearly tore out his windpipe in coming away.
On his back the fellow was panting, hoarsely, and Merry found it no easy thing to dislodge him.
Round and round they whirled. Frank might have shouted for aid, but he realized that his door was bolted on the inside, and no assistance could reach him without breaking it down.
Besides that, Merry’s pride held him in check. There was but one intruder, and he did not feel like shouting and thus seeming to confess himself outmatched and frightened.
They were at a corner of the alcove. The partition projected sharply there, and, of a sudden, with all his strength, Merry flung himself backward, dashing the man on his back against that projecting corner.
There was a grunt, a groan, and a curse.
It seemed that, for an instant, the shock had hurt and dazed the man, and, in that instant, Merry wrenched himself free.
“Now this thing will be somehow more even,” he whispered, from his crushed and aching throat. He whirled to grapple with the fellow, but again the slippery rascal dodged him, leaping away.
Frank followed.
The man caught up a chair, swung it and struck at Merriwell’s head with force enough to crush Frank’s skull.
Merry could not dodge, but he caught the chair and saved his head, although he was sent reeling backward by the blow.
Had the fellow followed him swiftly then it is barely possible he might have overcome Frank before Merry could steady himself. A moment of hesitation, however, was taken advantage of by the youth.
The chair was tossed aside, and Merry darted after the fellow, who was astounded and dismayed by his persistence.
Round to the opposite side of the table darted the intruder, and across the table they stared at each other.
“Well,” said Frank, in grim confession, “you are making a right good fight of it, and I will say that you are very slippery. I haven’t been able to get a hold of you yet, though. You’ll come down on the run when I do.”
The man was standing directly beneath the gas jet which Merry had lighted by pressing the electric button. Of a sudden he reached up and turned off the gas, plunging the room in darkness. Then, as Frank sprang toward the jet, something swooped down on him, covering his head and shoulders in a smothering manner!
Frank realized that some of the clothing from the bed had been torn off and flung over his head. He attempted to cast it aside, but it became tangled so he could not accomplish his purpose as readily as he wished, although he was not long in doing so.
Retreating, he was prepared for an assault, for it seemed that the masked unknown would follow up the advantage he had gained.
No assault came.
Frank paused and listened, and, to his amazement, he could hear no sound in the room. Still, he felt that the man must be there, awaiting for an opportunity to carry out the deadly purpose which had brought him into his apartment at that hour.
It was not pleasant to stand there in the darkness, half expecting to feel a knife buried between his shoulders at any instant.
Gradually Frank’s eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom of the room. Still, he could see nothing that lived and moved. Beyond him was the window, standing open as he had left it, the light wind gently moving the draperies.
“Well,” thought Merry, “I wonder how long the fellow will keep still. He’ll have to make a move sometime.”
He backed up against the door and stood there, facing the window. Placing a hand behind him, he took hold of the knob of the door, which he found was still locked securely. This assured him that the intruder had not escaped in that direction.
Merry felt certain that the man was close at hand. He knew he could unlock and unbolt the door and leap out quickly. He could slam the door behind him and lock it, thus penning the man in there. Then he could descend to the office and inform the clerk that he had captured a burglar.
Somehow, he did not feel like doing that; that seemed too much as if he were running away. He did not fancy doing anything that seemed in the least cowardly, even though it might be discreet.
Further than that, however, it was by no means certain that, even though he locked and secured the door behind him after leaping out of the room, he could hold the intruder captive.
In some manner the man had entered that room without disturbing the lock or bolt on the door.
How had he entered?
Frank looked toward the open window, but he knew it opened upon the face of the hotel, four stories from the level of the street, and that settled in his mind all doubts about the window, for he instantly decided that it had not been possible for the masked unknown to get into the room that way.
Had he been in some old colonial house he would have fancied the fellow had gained admittance by means of a panel in the wall and a secret passage; but he was in a modern hotel, and it was beyond the range of probability that there were secret passages or moving wall panels in the structure.
These thoughts flitted through his mind swiftly as he stood there, trying to hear some sound that would tell him where the intruder was in the room.
All was still.
Below in the street a cab rattled and rumbled along.
The silence was even more nerve-racking than the unexpected appearance of the masked man had been. The mystery of the whole affair was beginning to impress Merry, and a mystery always aroused his curiosity to the highest pitch.
“Take your time, sir,” he thought, as he leaned against the door and waited. “I believe I can stand it as long as you can.”
Near at hand the door of another room swiftly opened and closed. The sound of hurried footsteps passed the door of Merriwell’s room.
Frank was tempted to fling open his door and call to the man, but he hesitated about that till it was too late.
“Let him go,” he thought. “Perhaps he would have been frightened to death had I called him in here.”
The push button by which he could call assistance from the office was in the alcove. At this time of night it was not likely there would be anything but a tardy answer to his call should he make it.
But the electric button which turned on and ignited the gas was also in the alcove.
Frank longed to reach that button. He longed to light the gas in order to look around for the intruder.
Of course he could have lighted it with a match; but he realized that such a thing might be just what the unknown hoped for and expected. The man might be waiting for him to strike a match.
The minutes fled.
“Something must be done,” Merry at last decided.
Then he resolved to leave the door, move slowly along the wall, reach the button and light the gas—if possible.
With the silence of a creeping cat, he inched along. Every sense was on the alert.
It took him a long time to come to the foot of the bed at the opening of the alcove, but he reached it at last. Was the masked man waiting for him in the darkness of the alcove? It seemed certain that he could be nowhere else in the room.
Frank hesitated, nerving himself for what might come. Surely it required courage to enter that alcove.
He listened, wondering if he could hear the breathing of the man crouching in the alcove.
He heard nothing.
Then every nerve and muscle seemed to grow taut in Merriwell’s body, and, with one panther-like spring, he landed on the bed. In the twinkling of an eye he was at the head of the bed, and his fingers found the push button.
Snap!—the gas came on, with a flare.
It showed him standing straight up on the bed, his hands clinched, ready for anything that might follow.
Nothing followed.
Frank began to feel puzzled.
“Why in the name of everything peculiar doesn’t he get into gear and do something—if he’s going to do anything at all?” thought the youth on the bed.
Again a bound carried him over the footboard and out into the middle of the room, where he whirled to face the alcove, his eyes flashing round the place.
The bed covering which had been flung over his head lay in the middle of the floor, where he had cast it aside.
Nothing stirred in the room. On a chair near at hand Frank could hear his watch ticking in his pocket.
Then the intruder had not taken the watch, which was valuable.
Frank glanced toward his clothes. He had carefully placed them in a certain position when he undressed, and there they lay, as if they had not been touched or disturbed in the least.
“Queer burglar,” meditated Merry. “Should have thought he’d gone through my clothes first thing.”
But where was the fellow? There seemed but one place for him, and Frank stopped to look beneath the bed.
There was no one under the bed. The wardrobe door stood slightly ajar.
“Ah!” thought Frank. “At last! He must be in there, for there is no other place in this room where he could hide.”
Without hesitation, Frank flung open the door of the wardrobe, saying:
“Come out, sir!”
But the wardrobe was empty, save of such clothing and things as Frank had placed there with his own hands.
Merriwell fell back, beginning to feel very queer. He looked all around the room, walking over to a sofa across a corner and looking behind that. In the middle of the floor he stopped.
“This beats anything I ever came against!” he exclaimed. “Was it a spook?”
Then the pain in his throat, where those iron hands had threatened to crush his windpipe, told him that it was no “spook.”
“And it could not have been a dream,” he decided. “I know there was a living man in this room. How did he escape? That is one question. When it is answered, I shall know how he obtained admittance. And why did he come here?”
Frank examined his clothes to make sure that nothing had been taken. He soon discovered that his watch, money and such valuables as he carried about with him every day, were there, not a thing having been disturbed. That settled one point in Frank’s mind. The man had not entered that room for the purpose of robbery.
If not for robbery, what then?
It must have been for the purpose of wreaking some injury on Merriwell as he slept.
“I was warned by my feelings,” Frank decided. “I was in deadly peril; there is no doubt of that.”
Frank went to the window and looked out. It seemed a foolish thing to do, for he had looked out and seen that there was not even a fire escape to aid a person in gaining admittance to his room. The fire escape, he had been told, was at the end of the corridor.
It was a night without a moon, but the electric lights shone in the street below. Something caused Merry to turn his head and look to his left.
What was that?
Close against the face of the outer wall something dangled.
A sudden eagerness seized him. He leaned far out of the window, doing so at no small risk, and reached along the wall toward the object. With the tip of his fingers he grasped it and drew it toward him.
It was a rope!
“The mystery is solved!” muttered Frank, with satisfaction. “This explains how the fellow entered my room.”
He shook the rope and looked upward. He could see that it ran over the sill of a window two stories above.
“Did he come down from there? Should have thought he would have selected a window directly over this. And did he climb back up this swaying, loosely dangling rope?”
Frank wondered not a little. And then, as he was leaning out of his window, the light of the street lamps showed him that a window beyond the dangling rope, on a level with his, was standing open.
The sight gave Merry a new idea.
“I believe I understand how the trick was worked,” he muttered.
“That must explain how the fellow was able to vanish so swiftly while my head was covered by the bedclothes. With the aid of this rope, he swung out from his window and into mine. He could do it easily and noiselessly. While my head was covered, he plunged out of the window, caught the rope, and swung back. That’s it!”
Frank drew his head in quickly, but he still clung to the end of the rope. This he drew in and lay over the sill.
“Yes,” he decided, “that is the way the fellow escaped. He had the rope right here, so that he could catch it in a moment, and, grasping it, he plunged outward through the window. His momentum carried him right across and into the other window. It was a reckless thing to do, but perfectly practical.”
Then he remembered how he had heard, while standing with his back against his own door, the door of an adjoining room open and close, followed by the sound of swift footsteps passing outside.
“That was when he left his room,” Merry decided.
It did not take Frank long to resolve to explore that room—to seek for some clew to the identity of the masked intruder.
With the aid of the rope, he could swing into the open window; with its aid he could swing back to his own room.
He would do it.
Of course, Merry realized what a rash thing he was about to do. Of course he understood that he might be rushing to the waiting arms of his late antagonist.
Still he was not deterred. All his curiosity was aroused, and he was bent on discovering the identity of the man, if such a thing were possible.
He grasped the rope and climbed upon the window sill. Looking out, he carefully calculated the distance to the next window and the momentum he would require to take him there. Having decided this, he prepared to make the swing.
And then, just at the very instant that he swung off from the window sill, he heard a hoarse, triumphant laugh above.
He looked up.
Out of the window from which ran the rope, a man was leaning. In his hand was something on which the light from the street lamps glinted.
It was a knife!
With that knife the wretch, whose face was covered by a mask, gave a slash at the rope, just as Merry swung off from the sill.
With a twang, the rope parted!
It was sixty feet to the street below.
Frank fell.
Not far, however, for he released the rope and shot out his arms. He had swung across so that he was opposite the open window when the rope was cut.
Merriwell knew all his peril at the instant when he swung from the sill of his own window, but it was too late for him to keep himself from being carried out by the rope.
In a twinkling, his one thought was to reach the other window quickly, knowing he would be dashed to death on the paving below if he did not. He flung himself toward that window, just as the rope parted. His arms shot in over the sill, and there he dangled.
Down past his head shot the rope, twisting and writhing in the air, like a snake. He heard it strike on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.
An exclamation of rage broke from the lips of the man in the window above, for he realized that Frank had not fallen with the rope.
He leaned far out, lifted his arm, made a quick motion, and something went gleaming and darting through the air.
He had flung the knife at Frank.
It missed Merriwell, shot downward, and struck with a ringing clang on the stones below.
“Missed!” snarled the man. “Well, I’ll get you yet!”
Then Merriwell drew himself in at the window, and the peril was past.
No wonder he felt weak and limp. No wonder that he was jarred and somewhat bewildered. It was a marvel that he was not lying dead in the street below.
Frank understood the full extent of the peril through which he had passed, and a prayer welled from his lips.
“Thank God!”
He was grateful in his heart, and he felt that he had been spared through the kindness of an all-wise Providence.
It was some moments before he could stir. He lay on the floor, panting, and regaining his strength.
He heard no sound in the room, for all the noise he had made in coming in, and more than ever he became convinced that the room had been occupied by his desperate enemy who had sought to destroy him that night.
There was now no longer a doubt concerning the purpose of the man who had gained admission to Frank’s room. The fellow had not come there for plunder, but for the purpose of harming Merriwell.
Frank rose and sought the gas jet, which he lighted. Then he looked around.
Somehow, it seemed that the room had been occupied that night, although the bed was undisturbed, showing that no person had slept in it.
Frank fancied that his enemy had sat by the window, waiting, waiting till he felt sure Merry was sound asleep.
And Frank had been sleeping soundly. He realized that, and he knew something had caused him to awaken, just in time.
What was it? Was it some good spirit that hovered near to protect him?
He looked all round the room, but could find nothing that served as a clew to the identity of the man who had occupied the apartment.
But the register would tell to whom the room had been let.
Having decided to go down and look the register over, Frank wondered how he was to get back into his own room, for the door was locked and bolted on the inside.
He went to the window and looked out. There was no way for him to reach his window now that the rope had been cut.
“And I should not be surprised if I am locked in this room,” thought Merry.
Investigation showed, however, that the door was unlocked, and he was able to step out into the corridor.
But there he was, shut out from his own room by lock and bolt, and dressed in nothing but a suit of pajamas.
The adventure had assumed a ludicrous aspect. Frank wondered what he could do. It was certain that they would not break into his room at that hour of the night, for the sound of bursting the bolt would disturb other sleepers.
The watchman came down the corridor. He saw Frank and came onward with haste, plainly wondering what Merry was doing there.
“Look here,” said Frank, “I want to know the name of the man who occupies No. 231, this room next to mine.”
“What is the matter?” asked the watchman.
“This person has disturbed me,” said Frank, truthfully. “I am not going to raise a kick about it to-night, but I shall report it to the clerk in the morning.”
“Does he snore loudly?” inquired the watchman. “I didn’t think you could hear through those partitions.”
“Here,” said Frank, who had seen the watchman before, “you know me. My name is Merriwell. I haven’t a cent in these pajamas, but I’ll give you two dollars in the morning if you will go down to the office, look on the register, find out who occupies No. 231, and come back here and tell me.”
Now it happened that Frank had given the watchman fifty cents the night before to do something for him, and so the man was persuaded to go down to the office, although it is quite probable that he did not expect to see the promised two dollars in the morning.
Frank waited.
The watchman came back after a time.
“Well,” asked Merry, “did you look on the register and find out the name of the man who was given No. 231?”
“I did,” nodded the watchman.
“What is his name?”
“William Shakespeare Burns,” was the astonishing answer.
Frank staggered. He told the watchman he had made a mistake, but the man insisted that he had not. That was enough to excite Merry more than anything that had happened to date.
Could it be that Burns, the old actor, whom he had befriended, had sought his life?
It did not seem possible.
If it were true, then, beyond a doubt, the man had been bribed to do the deed by some person who remained in the background.
It did not take Frank long to tell the watchman what had happened. The man could scarcely believe it. He seemed to regard Merriwell as somewhat deranged.
“If you do not think I am telling the truth,” said Merry, “get your keys and try my door. If you are able to open it, I shall be greatly pleased.”
The watchman did so, but he could not open the door of the room.
“Now,” said Merry, “to make yourself doubly sure, go down to the sidewalk in front of the hotel and you will find the rope there.”
The man went down and found the rope. He came back greatly agitated.
“This is a most astonishing occurrence,” he said. “Never knew anything like it to happen here before.”
“Keep your eyes open for the man who had No. 231,” said Merry. “I am going to take that room and sleep there the rest of the night. In the morning the door of my room must be opened for me.”
He went into that room, closed the door, locked it and bolted it, closed and fastened the window, and went to bed. Of course he did not go to sleep right away, but he forced himself to do so, after a time, and he slept peacefully till morning.
In the morning Frank found the door of his room had been forced, so he was able to go in immediately on rising. He had been unable to obtain a room with a private bath connected, but there was a bathroom directly across the corridor, and he took his morning “dip,” coming out as bright as a new dollar.
But the mystery of the midnight intruder weighed heavily on Merry. He felt that he would give anything to solve it, and it must be solved in some manner.
Bart came around before breakfast, and he found Merriwell standing in the middle of his room, scowling at the carpet. Frank was so unlike his accustomed self that Hodge was astounded.
“What’s happened?” asked Bart.
“One of the most singular adventures of my life,” answered Frank, and he proceeded to tell Bart everything.
“Singular!” cried Hodge. “I should say so! You are dead in luck to be alive!”
“I consider myself so,” confessed Merry; “but I would give any sum to know who entered my room last night. Of course the name on the register was false.”
“Are you certain?”
“Certain! Great Scott! You do not fancy for an instant that Burns was the man, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do!”
“You mean you think you do.”
“No; I mean that I know. Burns was not the man.”
“How do you know?”
“Why, hang it, Hodge! Why should that unfortunate old fellow wish to harm me, who has been his friend?”
“Somebody may have hired him to do it.”
“Oh, you’re daffy on that point! Reason will teach you that. If it had been Burns, he would not have registered under his own name. But I absolutely know it was not Burns I encountered. Besides being ridiculous that a man of his years and habits should venture to enter my room in such a manner, the man whom I encountered was supple, strong, and quick as a flash. Burns could not have fought like that; he could not have escaped in such an astonishing manner.”
“Oh, well, perhaps not,” admitted Hodge, who seemed reluctant to give up. “But I have warned you against Burns all along, and——”
“Oh, drop him now! Somebody else is trying to injure the poor fellow. I want to know who did the job last night, and W. S. Burns will not be able to tell me anything.”
Bart had no more to say, and they went down to breakfast together.
Of course the hotel people promised to do everything possible to discover who had made the assault, but Frank had little confidence in their ability to accomplish anything. In fact, he believed the time had passed to do anything, for it seemed that his enemy had escaped from the hotel without leaving a trace behind him.
Frank thought over the list of enemies who had sought to injure him since he entered theatricals, and he was startled. Three of his enemies were dead. Arthur Sargent had been drowned; Percy Lockwell was lynched, and Leslie Lawrence met his death in the quicksands of Big Sandy River. Of his living enemies, who might be desperate enough to enter his room and seek to harm him Philip Scudder stood alone.
Where was Scudder? Was he in Denver? If so——
“If so, he is the man!” decided Frank.
Merry resolved to be on his guard, for something told him another attempt would be made against him.