All that forenoon he worked in the theater setting up the new mechanical arrangement, which had been completed, and preparing for the rehearsal that afternoon.
Rehearsal time came, and the members of the company assembled.
All but Burns.
He was missing.
“What do you think about it now?” asked Bart, grimly.
“The same as I thought before,” declared Frank. “Burns was almost broken-hearted at rehearsal yesterday. It is possible he may not come to-day, for you know he wished to be released.”
“Ah,” said a sad voice, as the person in question appeared; “it is necessity that brings me. I fain would have remained away, but I need the money, and I must do that which my heart revolts against.”
“I believed you would come,” said Frank, greeting the old tragedian. “You will get used to the part after a while. It is better to make people laugh than to make them weep.”
“But it is too late for me to turn myself into a clown.”
“Where did you stay last night?” asked Merry.
“At my humble lodgings,” was the answer.
“A man by your name registered at the hotel where I stop, and had the room next to mine. Is it possible there are two William Shakespeare Burns in the city of Denver?”
The old man drew himself up, thrusting his hand into the bosom of his coat, with his familiar movement of dignity.
“There is but one,” he said—“but one real William Shakespeare Burns in the whole world! I am he!”
“But you were not at the hotel last night?”
“Of a certainty I was not. To that I will pledge mine honor. If another was there under my name, he is an impostor.”
Frank was satisfied, but Bart was not; or, if Hodge was satisfied, he would not confess it.
The rehearsal began. Frank had engaged some people to work the mechanical arrangement used in the third act, and they had been drilled and instructed by Havener.
The first act went off well, the storm at the conclusion being worked up in first-class style. Scarcely a word of that act had Frank altered, so there was very little trouble over it.
The second act was likewise a success, Havener finding it necessary to interrupt and give instructions but twice.
Then came the third act, which Merry had almost entirely rewritten. In that act the burlesque tragedian was given an opportunity, and Burns showed that he had his lines very well, although he ran over them after the style of the old-time professional who disdains to do much more than repeat the words till the dress rehearsal comes.
The third act was divided into three scenes, the second scene being an exterior, showing the river in the distance, lined by a moving, swaying mass of people. Along the river raced the three boats representing Yale, Harvard and Cornell. Keeping pace with them on the shore was the observation train, black with a mass of spectators. As the boats first came on, Harvard had a slight lead, but Yale spurted on appearing, and when they passed from view Yale was leading slightly.
All this was a mechanical arrangement made to represent boats, a train, the river, and the great crowd of spectators. The rowers in the boats were inanimate objects, but they worked with such skill that it was hard to believe they were not living and breathing human beings. Even the different strokes of the three crews had been imitated.
This arrangement was an invention of Merriwell’s own. In fact, it was more of an optical illusion than anything else, but it was most remarkable in its results, for, from the front of the house, a perfect representation of the college boat race appeared to be taking place in the distance on the stage.
Havener was a man who said very little, but he showed excitement and enthusiasm as this scene was being worked out.
When the boats had disappeared, the stage grew dark, and there was a quick “shift” to the interior of the Yale boathouse. The entire front of the house, toward the river, had been flung wide open. Behind the scenes the actors who were not on the stage at the moment and the supers hurrahed much like the cheering of a vast multitude. Whistles shrieked, and then the three boats shot into view, with Yale still in the lead. The characters on the stage proper, in the boathouse, had made it known that the finish was directly opposite the boathouse, and so, when the boats flew across with Yale in advance, it was settled that the blue had won.
Then Frank Merriwell, who had escaped from scheming enemies, and rowed in the race for all the attempts to drug him, was brought on by his admirers, and with the Yale cheer of victory, the curtain came down.
Roscoe Havener came rushing onto the stage and caught Frank Merriwell by the hand, crying:
“Merriwell, you are a genius! I want to say right here that I have doubted the practicability of this invention of yours, but now I confess that it is the greatest thing I ever saw. Your sawmill invention in ‘John Smith’ was great, but this lays way over it! You should make your fortune with this, but you must protect it.”
“I shall apply for a patent on the mechanism,” said Frank. “I am having a working model made for that purpose.”
“That’s right. You have your chance to make a fortune, and I believe you can make it with this piece.”
“It is a chance,” agreed Frank, gravely; “but I shall take it for better or worse. I am going into this thing to make or break. I’ve got some money, and I’ll sink every dollar I’m worth in the attempt to float this piece.”
Frank spoke with quiet determination.
Hodge stood near and nodded his approval and satisfaction.
“It’s great, Merry,” he said, in approval. “It’s something new, too. You will not have any trouble over this, the way you did about the sawmill scene.”
“I hope not.”
Cassie Lee, the little soubrette, who was engaged to Havener, found an opportunity to get hold of Frank’s hand. She gave it a warm pressure.
“I’m so glad!” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “If Ross says it will go, you can bet it will! He knows his business. I’ve been waiting for him to express himself about it, and, now that he has, I feel better. You are right in it, Frank! I think you are a dandy!”
“Thank you, Cassie,” smiled Frank, looking down at her.
And even though he liked Cassie, who had always been his friend, he was thinking at that moment of another little girl who was far away, but whom he had once hoped would create the part in “True Blue” that had been given to Cassie.
In the fourth act Frank had skillfully handled the “fall” of the play, keeping all in suspense as he worked out the problem, one of the chief arts of successful play constructing. Too often a play falls to pieces at once after the grand climax is reached, and the final act is obviously tacked on to lengthen it out.
This one fault Frank had worked hard to avoid, and he had succeeded with masterly skill, even introducing a new element of suspense into the final act.
Merry had noticed that, in these modern days, the audience sniffs the “and-lived-happy-forever-after” conclusion of a play from afar, and there was always a rustling to get hats and coats and cloaks some moments before the end of most plays. To avoid this, he determined to end his play suddenly and in an original manner. This he succeeded in doing in a comedy scene, but not until the last speech was delivered was the suspense entirely relieved.
Havener, who could not write a play to save his life, but who understood thoroughly the construction of a piece, and was a discriminating critic, was nearly as well pleased by the end of the piece as by the mechanical effect in the third act.
“If this play does not make a big hit I shall call myself a chump,” he declared. “I was afraid of it in its original form, but the changes have added to it the elements it needed to become immensely popular.”
When the rehearsal was over Cassie Lee found Burns seated on a property stump behind the scenes, his face bowed on his hands, his attitude that of one in deep sorrow.
“Now, what’s the matter with you?” she asked, not unkindly. “Are you sick?”
The old tragedian raised his sad face and spoke:
“‘Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,To make my end too sudden; learn good soul,To think our former state a happy dream;From which awaked, the truth of what we areShews to us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,To grim necessity; and he and IWill keep a league till death.’”
There was something strangely impressive in the old man’s words and manner, and the laugh she tried to force died on Cassie’s lips.
“I s’pose that’s Shakespeare you are giving me,” she said. “I don’t go much on Shake. He was all right in his day, but his day is past, and he won’t go down with people in general now. The public wants something up to date, like this new play of Merriwell’s, for instance.”
“Ah, yes,” sighed Burns; “I think you speak the truth. In these degenerate days the vulgar rabble must be fed with what it can understand. The rabble’s meager intellects do not fathom the depths of the immortal poet’s thoughts, but its eyes can behold a mechanical arrangement that represents a boat race, and I doubt not that the groundlings will whoop themselves hoarse over it.”
“That’s the stuff!” nodded Cassie. “That’s what we want, for I rather reckon Mr. Merriwell is out for the dust.”
“The dust! Ah, sordid mortals! All the world, to-day, seems ‘out for the dust.’”
“Well, I rather think that’s right. What do you want, anyway? If you have plenty to eat and drink and wear you’re in luck.”
“‘What is a manIf his chief good and market of his timeBe but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.’”
“That’s all right; but just think of the ones who can’t get all they want to eat, and who are driven to work like dogs, day after day, without ever getting enough sleep to rest them.”
“Ah, but few of them have hopes or aspirations. They are worms of the earth.”
“Oh, I don’t know! I reckon some of them are as good as anybody, but they’re down on their luck. The world has gone against them.”
“But they have never climbed to the heights, only to slip back to the depths. Then is when the world turns dark.”
The old tragedian bowed his head again, and, feeling that she could say nothing to cheer him up, Cassie left him there.
Frank came in later, and had a talk with Burns. The old man acknowledged that he believed the play would be a success, but he bemoaned his fate to be forced to play a part so repulsive to him. Merry assured him that he would get over that in time, and succeeded in putting some spirit into the old fellow.
The day came for the great dress rehearsal of “True Blue,” to which the theatrical people of Denver, the newspaper men, and a great number of prominent people had been invited.
Frank had determined on this course at great expense, but he believed he would be repaid for the outlay.
His chief object was to secure good newspaper notices and recommendations from the theater managers in the city.
It was to be an afternoon performance, so that it would not interfere with any of the regular theatrical attractions to play in town that night.
Early in the day Hodge advised Frank to keep a sharp watch on Burns.
“Don’t let him have any money, Merry. He fancies he will have to go through a terrible ordeal this afternoon, and he wishes to brace up for it. If he gets all he wants to drink, he will be loaded to the muzzle when the time comes to play.”
Frank feared this, and so, when Burns appealed to him for money, he refused the old man, telling him he could have some after the performance.
Then Merry set Gallup to watch the tragedian.
Frank was at work in the theater, where various members of the company were practicing specialties, and the stage hands were arranging everything so that there would be no hitch about the performance.
Within thirty minutes after Gallup was set to watch the old actor, he came to Frank in a hurry, saying:
“If you want to keep Mr. Burns sober, I advise yeou to come with me an’ git him aout of a grog shop daown the street, Merry.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Frank. “Why, he hasn’t the money to buy liquor, even if he has gone into a saloon.”
“He won’t hev to buy it, I guess.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I saw two men pick him up an’ take him inter the gin mill. They axed him would he come in an’ have somethin’ with them.”
“Did he know them?”
“Didn’t seem ter. He looked kainder s’prised, but he accepted the invite in a hurry.”
“Then it is time that we looked after him,” nodded Merry, grimly. “Show me where he has gone, Ephraim.”
Hodge followed them. They left the theater and hurried along the street to a saloon.
“He went in here,” said Ephraim.
Without a word, Frank entered.
The moment Merry was within the place he saw Burns standing near the bar, while a crowd had gathered around him. The old man had placed his hat on the bar, tossed back his long, black hair, which was streaked with gray, struck a pose, and was just beginning to declaim from Shakespeare.
“Go it, old chap!” cried a half-intoxicated man. “We’ll put up the red eye for you as long as you will spout.”
The old man’s voice rang out clear and strong. His pronunciation was perfect, and his enunciation clear and distinct. Involuntarily Merry paused a moment to listen. At that moment it came to Frank that Burns might, beyond a doubt, have been an actor of no small merit had he eschewed drink and followed his ambition with unswerving purpose. For the first time Merry fully appreciated the outraged feelings of the old fellow who was compelled to burlesque the tragedian on the stage.
Frank strode forward into the crowd, followed by his friends.
“Burns,” he said, quietly, interrupting the old man, “I want you to come with me.”
The aged actor stopped speaking, all the dignity seemed to melt from him in a moment, and he reached for his hat, murmuring:
“I merely came in for one small bracer. I needed it, and the gentlemen were good enough to invite me.”
“Here!” coarsely cried a man. “What’s this mean? Who’s this that’s comin’ here to spoil our fun?”
“Throw the feller out!” cried another.
Growls of anger came from the others gathered about, and they crowded nearer.
“Look out for trouble!” whispered Hodge, in Frank’s ear.
“Get out of here,” ordered the first speaker, confronting Merry. “We’re bein’ entertained.”
“I beg your pardon—gentlemen,” said Merry, smoothly, hesitating slightly before the final word. “There are reasons why I come here to take Mr. Burns with me. I am sorry to spoil your entertainment, but it is necessary.”
“Is the old fellow bound out to you?” sneeringly, asked one. “Do you own him?”
“No man owns me!” cried the tragedian, drawing himself up and staring round. “I am my own master.”
“I’ll bet you don’t dare take another drink,” said the man, quickly thrusting a brimming glass of whisky toward Burns. “You’re afraid of the young gent.”
“I’m afraid of nobody,” declared Burns, eagerly reaching for the glass. “I have drunk all I could get, and I always shall, for all of anybody.”
“That’s the talk!”
“Down with it!”
“Take your medicine!”
“You’re the boy!”
The crowd shouted its approval.
Burns lifted the glass.
Frank’s hand fell gently on his arm.
“Mr. Burns,” he said, swiftly, “I ask you as a particular favor not to drink that liquor. I ask you as a gentleman not to do it.”
Merry knew how to appeal to the old man in a manner that would touch the right spot. Burns looked straight into Frank’s eyes an instant, and then he placed the glass on the bar.
“If you ask me that way,” he said, “ten thousand fiends cannot force me to touch the stuff!”
There was a groan from the crowd.
“The old duffer caves!” sneered one man. “He hasn’t any backbone.”
“Oh, say!” sibilated Hodge, in Merry’s ear; “get him out of here in a hurry! I can’t stand much of this! I feel like thumping a few of these ruffians.”
“Steady!” cautioned Frank. “We do not want to get into a barroom brawl if we can avoid it.”
“They’re a purty darn tough-lookin’ craowd,” muttered Ephraim.
“Why wouldn’t it be a purty good thing fer ther young chaps all ter take a drink?” suggested somebody.
“That’s right!” cried the leader. “I’ll stand for them all, and the actor shall drink with them.”
“Don’t let them git out, gents, till they’ve taken their bitters.”
The rough men hemmed them in.
“I fear you are in an unfortunate predicament,” said Burns. “You will have to drink with them.”
“I never drink,” said Merry, quietly.
“Yer can’t refuse here,” declared the man who had offered to buy the drinks. “It’s a mortal insult ter refuse ter drink hyar.”
“I never took a drink in my life, gentlemen,” said Merriwell, speaking calmly, and distinctly, “and I shall not begin now. You will have to excuse me.”
He started to force his way through the crowd. A hand reached out to clutch him, and he wheeled like a flash toward the man, at whom he pointed squarely, crying:
“Take off that false beard! If you are a man, show your face! You are in disguise! I believe you are a criminal who does not dare show his face!”
His ringing words drew the attention of the crowd to the man whom he accused.
Merry improved the opportunity and hurried his friends and Burns toward the door. Before the gang was aware of it, they were out of the saloon, and Frank breathed his relief.
Not till they had reached the theater did a thought come to Frank that made him regret his hasty departure from the saloon.
“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “I believe the man who wore the false beard was the same one who entered my room at the hotel by means of the rope!”
He dashed back to the saloon, followed by Hodge and Gallup; but when he reached the place nearly all the crowd had left, the man he sought having departed with the others.
Frank was disappointed. He learned at the saloon that the accused man had not removed the beard, but had sneaked out in a hurry after Frank was gone.
Returning to the theater, Merry was informed that Burns was behaving strangely.
“He seems to be doped,” declared Hodge. “I think he has been drugged.”
Burns was in a dressing room, and Havener was working to keep the man awake, although the old actor was begging to be allowed to sleep.
As soon as Frank saw him he dispatched one of the supers for a physician.
The doctor came and gave Burns a powerful emetic, following that with a dose of medicine that seemed to brace the man up. Thus Burns was pulled into shape for the afternoon performance, although Frank realized that he had very nearly wrecked everything.
Burns remained in the theater, and lunch was brought him there.
“Mr. Merriwell,” he said, “I will surprise you by the manner in which I’ll play my part this afternoon. It shall be burlesque of a kind that’ll satisfy you.”
The performance was to begin at two o’clock. Some time before that people began to arrive, and they came fast. At two o’clock there were nearly five hundred persons in the auditorium.
The company was all made up and waiting behind the scenes.
Cassie Lee started to find Frank to ask him how he liked her make-up. In a corner behind the scenes she saw a man stopping near a mass of piled-up scenery. Something about the man’s appearance and his actions attracted her attention. She saw him pick up a can and pour some of the contents on the scenery. Then he crouched down there, taking a match safe from his pocket.
In a moment it dawned on Cassie that the fellow was up to deviltry. He had saturated the scenery with oil, and he was about to set it on fire!
Cassie screamed, and Frank Merriwell, who was near at hand, heard her. He came bounding to the spot, just as the startled man lighted his match.
“Quick, Frank!” cried Cassie. “He’s setting the scenery afire!”
Frank saw the fellow and leaped at him. The scenery flared up where the match had touched it. Then the fire bug turned to run.
Merriwell was on him, had him, hurled him down.
“No, you don’t, you dog!” grated Frank. “You shall pay for this dastardly trick!”
Cassie, with rare presence of mind, caught up a rug, which happened to be near, and beat out the fire before it had gained much headway.
A terrible struggle was going on between Frank and the man he had captured. The fellow was fighting with all his strength to hurry off and escape.
“No, you don’t!” came through Merriwell’s teeth. “I know you! You are the chap who entered my room! You it was who attempted to drug Burns so that this performance would be ruined! And now you have made a fatal mistake by attempting to fire the theater. I have you, and I shall hold you. You will be safely lodged behind prison bars for this trick.”
“Curse you!” panted the man.
“That does not hurt me,” said Merry. “Now, be quiet.”
He pinned the fellow to the floor and held him till others came up. Then the man’s hands were tied.
“Now, we’ll have a look at him,” said Merry, rolling the captive over on his back and pulling the old hat from his head.
Then he gave a cry of amazement, staggering back.
Hodge was there, and he was no less astounded.
Gallup was speechless with astonishment and incredulity.
“The dead alive!” cried Frank.
The man he had captured was the one he believed beneath the quicksands of Big Sandy River, Leslie Lawrence!
“I’m not dead yet!” grated Lawrence. “Fowler went down in the quicksands, but I managed to float away. I hid under the river’s bank, and there I stayed, like a hunted wolf, till you gave up looking for me. I swore to settle the score with you, but——”
“You tried hard enough. You were the one who entered my room at the hotel.”
“Was I? Prove it.”
“I don’t have to. The job you tried to do here is enough. That will put you safely away. Somebody call an officer.”
An officer was called, and Lawrence was taken away.
The audience in front had heard some of the commotion behind the scenes and had grown rather restless, but they were soon calmed. An orchestra was on hand to play, and everything was carried out as if it had been a regular performance.
The first act went off well, and it received mild applause. The second act seemed to take full better, but still, the audience had not been aroused to any great show of enthusiasm.
Then came the third act. The first surprise was Burns. He literally convulsed the audience by the manner in which he burlesqued the Shakespearian tragedian. He astonished Frank, for Merry had not dreamed the old actor could be so intensely funny. Even Hodge was seen to smile once!
When Burns came off after doing an exceptionally clever piece of work, which caused the audience to applaud most heartily, Frank met him and grasped his hand, saying:
“My dear Mr. Burns, you have made the comedy hit of the piece! Your salary shall be fifty dollars a week, instead of forty.”
But William Shakespeare Burns burst into tears, sobbing brokenly:
“The comedy hit of the piece! And I have broken my own heart!”
It was impossible to cheer him up.
The boat race followed swiftly, and it wrought the audience up to a high pitch of enthusiasm and excitement. When the curtain came down, there was a perfect shout of applause, such as an enthusiastic Western audience alone can give.
“Frank Merriwell! Frank Merriwell!” was the cry that went up from all parts of the house.
Frank was obliged to come before the curtain and make a speech, which he did gracefully and modestly. When he was behind the curtain again, Havener had him by the hand, saying:
“You will get some rousing press notices to-morrow, Merriwell! This play will be the hit of your life!”
A manager of one of the local theaters came behind the scenes and offered Frank three thousand dollars for the piece. When Frank declined, the man promptly made it five thousand, but even that sum was not accepted.
Then came the fourth act, in which Burns again appeared as the burlesque tragedian. In this he was to repeat a parody onHamlet’ssoliloquy, but, apparently, before he was aware of it, he began to give the soliloquy itself.
In a moment the man had flung off the air of the clown. He straightened to his full height, his eyes gleamed with a strange fire, his chest heaved, and his voice sounded clear as the ring of steel. He electrified every person who heard him. With all the dramatic fire of a Booth, he swung into the soliloquy, and a hush fell over the audience. He held them spellbound, he swayed them at his will, he thrilled them as never had they been thrilled. At that moment William Shakespeare Burns was the tragedian sublime, and it is probable that he reached such heights as he had never before attained.
He finished. It was over, and then, realizing what he had done, he tottered off the stage.
Then the audience applauded long and loud, trying to call him back again; but behind the scenes he had fallen into Frank Merriwell’s arms, faintly murmuring:
“It is finished!”
Frank bore the man to a dressing room. The play went on to the end without a break, but it was not necessary for Burns to enter again.
When the curtain fell on the final act, Havener came hurrying to Merry:
“Burns wants to see you in the dressing room,” he said. “You had better come at once.”
Frank went there. The moment he saw the old actor, who was reclining on some rugs, his face ashen, his eyes looking dim and sunken still deeper into his head, Frank said:
“Somebody go for a doctor at once!”
He knelt beside the man, and the old actor murmured:
“It is useless to go for a doctor. I heard you tell them, but it is—no use. I told you—my heart—was broken. I spoke the—truth. It broke my heart when I—had to—burlesque——”
His words died out in his throat.
“He’s going!” somebody whispered, for the company was gathered around.
There was a brief silence, and then the old man seemed to draw himself up with pride, as they had seen him do in life.
“Yes, sir,” he said, distinctly, “my name is Burns—William Shakespeare Burns—tragedian—at liberty.”
The old eyes closed, a faint sigh escaped his bloodless lips, and the old actor was “at liberty.”
“Yesterday afternoon, through the courtesy of Manager Frank Merriwell, an invited audience of at least five hundred persons witnessed the first performance of Mr. Merriwell’s revised and rewritten play at the Orpheum Theater, and the verdict of that audience, which represented the highest and most cultured element of Denver society, was that the sprightly, sensational, four-act comedy drama was a success in every way. The play, which is now named ‘True Blue,’ was originally christened ‘For Old Eli,’ and, after a single performance, Mr. Merriwell withdrew it for the purpose of rewriting it, correcting certain faults he had discovered, and strengthening one or two weak points. As he wrote the piece, he was able to do this work of reconstruction quickly and thoroughly, and the result is a play of which he, as author, manager and star performer, may well be proud. The following is the cast:
DICK TRUEHEART FRANK MERRIWELLBarry Hattleman Douglas DuntonSpruce Downing Rufus SmallCrack Hyerman Bartley HodgeReuben Grass Ephraim GallupManny Sizzwell William WynneProf. Gash Roscoe HavenerEdwin Treadwell William Shakespeare BurnsCarius Dubad Granville GarlandSpike Dubad Lester VanceMillie Blossom Miss Cassie LeeInez Dalton Miss Stella StanleyNancy Noodle Miss Agnes Kirk
“College life is the principal theme of ‘True Blue,’ and Mr. Merriwell, having studied at Yale, is quite capable of catching the air and spirit of Old Eli, and reproducing it on the stage. This he has done with a deftness and fidelity that makes the play remarkable in its class, or, possibly with greater accuracy, lifts it out of its class, for, up to the production of this piece, all college plays have been feeble attempts to catch the spirit of the life they represent, or have descended into the realm of farce or burlesque.
“While the author of ‘True Blue’ has written a play to suit the popular fancy, he has not considered it necessary to write down to the general public, and, for all of the college slang, which of a necessity is used by several of the characters, there is nothing offensive in the entire piece—nothing to shock the sensibilties of the most refined. The comedy in places is a trifle boisterous, but that was to be expected, and it does not descend to mere buffoonery. It is the kind of comedy at which the spectator must laugh, even though he may resolve that he will not, and, when it is all over, he feels better for his laughter, instead of feeling foolish, as he does in many cases after witnessing other ‘popular plays.’
“The pathos strikes the right chord, and the strongest situations and climaxes are stirring enough to thrill the most sluggish blood. In some respects the story of the play is rather conventional, but it is handled in a manner that makes it seem almost new. Through the four actsDick Trueheart, the hero, is pursued by his enemies,Carius Dubad, and his, worthy son,Spike, and on various occasions they succeed in making things extremely unpleasant for the popular young athlete.
“Through two acts the villains pursue the hero, keeping the audience on thequi vive.
“The climax of the third act was the great sensational feature of the play. In this actDickescapes from his enemies and all sorts of crafty snares, and is barely in time to take his place in the Yale boat, which is to race against Harvard and Cornell.Carius Dubadhas appeared on the scene, and, at the last moment, in order to breakDick’sspirit, he reveals thatDick’sguardian has squandered his fortune, so that the hero is penniless and will be forced to leave college. For all of this revelation,Trueheartenters the boat and aids in winning the race against Harvard and Cornell, greatly to the discomfiture of the villainous father and son, who have bet heavily against Yale. Of course, Mr. Merriwell made Yale win in his play. The mechanism that showed the boat race on the distant river, the moving observation train, the swaying crowds with waving flags, hats, and handkerchiefs, was truly a most wonderful arrangement, and it filled the spectators with admiration and astonishment. A quick ‘dark shift’ followed, and then the boats actually appeared, with Yale the winner, andTrueheartwas brought onto the stage in the arms of his admiring fellow collegians, while the curtain descended amid a burst of genuine enthusiastic applause such as is seldom heard in any theater. Mr. Merriwell was called before the curtain, and he made a brief speech, which seemed modest and characteristic of this young actor and playwright, who is certain to follow a brilliant career on the American stage.
“In the final act the hero was in straitened circumstances, but all ends well, with the discomfiture of oldDubadand his worthy son, and the final settlement of all jealousies between the other characters.
“Not only as author of the play, but as the star does Frank Merriwell merit a full meed of credit and praise. Although he is young and impulsive, and his acting might not meet the approval of certain critics, there was a breeziness and freshness about him that captivated and carried the audience. It is said that he has never attended a school of acting, and this may readily be believed, for there is nothing affected, nothing stiff, nothing stilted and mechanical about his work on the stage. In his case, at least, it has been greatly to his advantage not to attend a dramatic school. He is a born actor, and he must work out his own methods without being hampered by convention and instruction from those who believe in doing everything by rule. He is a handsome young man, and his stage presence is both striking and effective. Worthy of note was it that he enunciated every word distinctly and pronounced it correctly, in great contrast to many other stars, who sometimes mangle speech in a most distressing manner. He has a voice that seems in perfect keeping with his splendid figure, being clear as a mellow bell, full of force, and delightful to hear.
“The work of Douglas Dunton asBarry Hattlemanwas good. Mr. Small, who is a very large man, faithfully portrayedSpruce Downing, the lazy student.Crack Hyerman, the hot-blooded Southerner, as represented by Bartley Hodge, who made the Southerner a thorough fire-eater, who would fight for his ‘honor’ at the drop of the hat. AsReuben Grass, Ephraim Gallup literally convulsed the audience. Without doubt his delineation of the Down-East Yankee was the best ever seen in Denver.
“Miss Cassie Lee played the sweet and winsomeMillie Blossom, and her singing and dancing met approval. TheInez Daltonof Miss Stanley was handled with great skill, and she was jealous, passionate, resentful, and loving in turn, and in a manner that seemed true to life. AsNancy Noodle, an old maid in love withProf. Gash, Miss Agnes Kirk was acceptable.
“And now comes the duty of mentioning a man who was the surprise of the evening. His name was given on the program as William Shakespeare Burns, and, as he represented a burlesque tragedian, it was supposed that the name was assumed. It has been learned, however, that this is the name by which he was known in real life. Mr. Burns first appeared in the second act, and asEdwin Treadwell, the frayed, back-number tragedian, he literally caused many of the audience to choke in the effort to repress their uncontrollable laughter. At the close of the third act, a local theatrical man declared that W. S. Burns far excelled as a comedian anybody he had ever seen essay a similar part. But the sensation came in the fourth act, when the actor started to parodyHamlet’ssoliloquy, but seemed to forget himself and the parody together, and swung into the original William Shakespeare. The laughter died out, the audience sat spellbound, scarcely breathing. The eyes of every person were fixed on the actor, who went through the soliloquy to the end, giving it with all the power of a Forrest or a Booth. As the actor retired, the audience awoke, realized it had seen and heard a man who was no clown, but a real tragedian, and the applause was long and loud.
“William Shakespeare Burns did not appear again on the stage of that theater; he will not appear again on any stage. He is dead! But few particulars have been learned about him, but it seems that this was his first attempt to play comedy—and his last. He regarded himself as the equal of any interpreter of Shakespeare, living or dead, but misfortune and his own weakness had never permitted him to rise to the heights to which he aspired. Grim necessity had compelled him to accept Mr. Merriwell’s offer to play in ‘True Blue’ the part of the burlesque tragedian. His heart and soul had rebelled against doing so, and often at rehearsals he had wept with mortification after going through with his part. His body was weakened by privation. He declared last night that his heart was broken. A few minutes after leaving the stage the last time he expired in one of the dressing rooms of the theater. Thus ended a life that might have been a grand success but for the failings of weak human nature.
“Mr. Merriwell will go on the road at once with ‘True Blue.’ He has engaged a competent man to fill the place made vacant by the death of Mr. Burns. His route for some little time is booked, and he leaves Denver to-day for Puelbo, where he opens to-morrow. The play, the star, and the company merit success, and we hope Mr. Merriwell will find it convenient to play a regular engagement in this city before long. It is certain, if he does, he will be greeted by packed houses.”—Denver Herald and Advertiser.
All the Denver papers contained notices of the performance, but the one quoted was the longest and the most elaborate. Not one of the notices was unfavorable. They were enough to make the heart of any manager glad, and it was not strange that Frank felt well satisfied.
But he was inexpressibly saddened by the sudden and tragic death of William Burns, for he had recognized the genius in the old actor, who had been dragged down from a highroad to prosperity and fame by the hands of the relentless demon that has destroyed so many men of genius, drink.
On account of his bookings, Frank could not remain in Denver to attend the funeral of the veteran tragedian, but he resolved that Burns should be buried with all honors, and he made arrangements for a suitable funeral.
Of course, the papers announced the funeral, and, the story of Burns’ remarkable death having become familiar to all, the church was packed to the doors. The man whose wretched life had promised a wretched death and a nameless grave was buried without pomp, but with such honors as might have been given to one well known and highly esteemed.
Above his grave a modest marble was placed, and chiseled on it was a single line from the “Immortal Bard,” whom he loved and understood and interpreted with the faithfulness and fire of genius:
“After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.”
And every expense Frank Merriwell provided for. Nothing was neglected; everything was done that good taste and a good heart demanded.
As may be understood, the members of Frank’s company were individually and collectively delighted with the apparent success of the play and their efforts. Perhaps Agnes Kirk was the only one who complained. She was not at all pleased by the notices she obtained.
Frank immediately secured a supply of Denver papers and, marking the notices, mailed them to the managers of theaters and the editors of papers along the route “True Blue” was to follow.
Then he had typewritten copies made of extracts from these notices, which he added to his collection of press notices already manufactured for advertising purposes, and sent them on to his advance agent, who had been out on the road several days.
Frank knew how to work every point to the best advantage, and he did not lose anything. He was tireless in his efforts, and it was wonderful what an immense amount of work he accomplished. No one knows how much he can do till he makes the test.
Hodge aided him as far as possible, and Frank found Bart a valuable assistant. Hodge was fully as eager as Merriwell for the play to be a great success.
Frank had opened with the piece under its original name in Puelbo, and it had met disaster there. He vowed that he would return to that place with the play and make a success of his engagement. He engaged the leading theater in the city for three nights, being obliged to pay in advance for it, as the manager had no confidence in the revised play.
Frank had been working the papers of the city. One of them was edited by a remarkably genial gentleman by the name of Osgood, and this editor had seen in the original play material for a strong piece. He admired Merry’s pluck in opening the second time in that city, and he literally opened the columns of his paper to Frank, who telegraphed down extracts from the Denver papers as soon as the notices appeared.
The house in Puelbo was to be well “papered” the first night, but was to depend entirely on the drawing qualities of the play for the audience on the following two nights.
Frank was making a great hustle to get away from Denver, and he was returning from the theater to his hotel, after seeing the last of the special scenery moved to the railroad station, when a heavily veiled woman stopped directly in his path. As he was walking hastily, he nearly ran against her.
“I beg your pardon, madam!” exclaimed Frank, lifting his hat. “Very awkward of me.”
“Not at all,” she said, in a low voice, that was not unpleasant nor unmusical. “You were hurrying, and I stopped directly in your way. I am the one who should beg to be excused.”
“Not at all,” he hastened to say. “I assure you that it was entirely on account of my awkwardness.”
He was about to pass on, but her gloved hand fell on his arm, and she said:
“I wish to speak with you, Mr. Merriwell.”
“You know me?” exclaimed Frank, surprised.
“Indeed, I do. Why should I not? All Denver knows you to-day.”
“Am I so famous as that?” smiled Merry. “I fear you flatter, madam.”
“It is not flattery. You must not doubt my sincerity.”
“Very well, I will not; but you must speak hastily, for I have a train to catch in an hour and thirty minutes, and I haven’t too much time to attend to all I have to do.”
“But you must give me a little of your time—you really must,” she said, persuasively, putting her hand on his arm again. “If you will come with me—please do!”
“Where?”
“Oh, I know a nice, quiet place, where we can talk.”
Somehow Frank did not like her words or manner. A feeling that there was something wrong about her came over him.
“Really, you must excuse me,” he said. “I have not the time to go anywhere to talk. If you have anything to say to me, you can say it here.”
“Now, don’t be obstinate. You’ll not regret it if you come.”
“But I do not even know who you are. That veil——”
“If you come, I may remove the veil,” she murmured.
Frank drew back, so that her hand fell from his arm.
“Madam,” he said, “you have placed me in a very awkward position. I do not like to appear rude to a lady, but——”
“Of course you do not, and so you will grant my request. It is a small matter.”
“But not to me, for my time is valuable just now. I am ready to hear anything you have to say, but you must say it here.”
“Would you keep a lady standing on the street?” she exclaimed, with a slight show of resentment. “I cannot say all I have to tell you in a minute.”
“And I have explained that I cannot spare time to talk over anything for more than a few moments. I think you will have to excuse me. Good-day.”
He lifted his hat and started to pass on, but again she placed herself squarely in front of him, to his great annoyance.
“Mr. Merriwell,” she said, “I have seen you on the stage, and I admire you greatly. You will not be rude to one of your admirers, I know. You are far too gallant for that.”
It was plain she sought to cajole him by flattery, and that was the surest way to repulse him.
“Is it possible she is one of those foolish women who fall in love with actors?” Frank asked himself.
Somehow she did not seem like that. There was nothing of the giddy, gushing girl about her. He could not see her face, but her figure was that of a matured woman, and he judged that she must be twenty-five years old, at least. It seemed, too, that there was a purpose in her words and movements.
But Frank resolved on action, for he had found that it was useless to waste words talking to her. He made a quick move to one side and passed her, intending to hasten away.
Barely had he done so when she flung her arms about his neck and screamed loudly!
Frank was astounded by this unexpected move of the veiled woman.
“She’s crazy!”
That was the thought that flashed through Merry’s mind.
He realized that he was in an awkward predicament, and he attempted to whirl about.
The woman was very strong, and, having taken him by surprise, she nearly threw him down. To save himself, he caught hold of her.
“Help!” she cried.
Some men came running up.
“Madam,” said Frank, hurriedly, “are you demented? What is the meaning of this?”
“You wretch!” she blazed. “Oh, you cowardly scoundrel, to assault a lady on the public street in broad daylight!”
“Surely you are——”
“I saw him do it!” declared a little man, with red whiskers. “I saw him assault you, madam.”
“Call an officer!” palpitated the woman. “Quick, before he gets away!”
“He shall not get away,” declared a big man with a crooked eye, glowering at Frank. “If he tries it, I’ll attend to him!”
“Looks like a would-be masher,” piped a slim man, with a very long neck, ducking and nodding his head in an odd manner. “He should be taught a lesson.”
One or two others expressed themselves in a similar manner.
Frank had thought of making a break and hastening away, but now he saw it would not do, for he would have a howling mob at his heels the instant he attempted such a move. He realized it would seem cowardly to run away in such a manner, and would look like a confession of guilt, which caused him to decide to stay and face it out, even though the predicament was most embarrassing.
“Gentlemen,” he said, looking squarely at them, and seeming to pay very little attention to the mysterious woman, even though he was perfectly on his guard, not knowing what move she might make next, “I trust you will give me a chance to explain what has happened.”
“Explain it in the police court,” growled the big man with a crooked eye. “That’s the proper place for you to make your explanations.”
“The judge will listen to you,” cried the slim man, his head bobbing on his long neck, like the head of a crane that is walking along the edge of a marsh.
“Don’t attempt to escape by means of falsehoods, you rascal!” almost shouted the little man with the red whiskers, bristling up in a savage manner, but dodging back the moment Frank turned on him.
“Gentlemen, I have been insulted by this fellow!” came from behind the baffling veil worn by the woman. “He is a low wretch, who attacked me in a most brutal manner.”
“We will see that you are protected, madam,” assured the little man, his red whiskers seeming to bristle like porcupine quills, as he dodged round Frank and placed himself on the opposite side of the veiled unknown. “Madam,” he repeated, “I will see that you are protected—I will!”
“You are very kind,” she fluttered; “but where is the officer? The reaction—the shock—the weakness!”
“Permit me to offer you any assistance possible,” gallantly spoke a man in a sack coat and a silk hat, stepping forward and raising the latter piece of wearing apparel, thereby disclosing a shining bald spot on the top of his head, which he covered as quickly as possible, evidently hoping it had escaped the woman’s notice. “You are in a city, my dear lady, where insults to the fair sex never go unpunished.”
He attempted to smile on her in a pleasant manner, but there was a sort of leer in his eyes and around his sensual mouth that betrayed his true character plainly enough.
The woman did not accept his arm which was half tendered, but she made a great show of agitation and distress, which affected the various witnesses.
“It’s a shame!” piped the man with the long neck and the bobbing head.
“It’s an outrage!” blustered the little man with the bristling whiskers and savage manner.
“It’s most unfortunate!” murmured the gallant man with the silk hat and sack coat.
“It’s a bad break for Mr. Masher!” ejaculated the big man with the crooked eye and glowering look.
Frank smiled; he could not help it, for he was impressed by the comedy of the affair, despite the unpleasantness of the situation he was in at that moment.
“This would be good stuff for a scene in a play,” he thought, and he made a mental note of it.
Then he turned to the woman.
“Madam,” he said, “what have I ever done to you that you should attempt to injure me in this manner?”
“Don’t let him speak to me, the scoundrel!” she entreated, appealing to the men.
“But it is no more than fair that you should answer me,” persisted Merry. “I do not know you; I have not even seen your face. Will you not lift your veil and permit me to see your face, so that I may know who has brought me into this unpleasant position?”
“He adds to his insults by requesting me to expose my identity on the street after such an affair as this!” she almost sobbed. “He would disgrace me! He would have my name in all the newspapers!”
“Reprehensible!” purred the gallant man.
“Terrible!” cackled the man with the bobbing head.
“Dastardly!” exploded the individual with the red whiskers.
“Criminal!” grated the giant with the crooked eye.
And they all glared at Frank—at least all of them but the one with the crooked eye. It is possible that he, also, glared at the supposed offender, but he seemed to be glaring at a white horse on the opposite side of the street.
Repressing his laughter with difficulty, Merry said:
“I assure you, gentlemen, I never saw this lady, to my knowledge, before a few minutes ago, when she stopped me on the street, and——”
Again the woman screamed.
“Will you listen to his base falsehoods?” she cried, with a show of the greatest indignation and distress. “He is trying to disgrace me still further by asserting that I stopped him on the street—stopped him! As if a lady would do such a thing!”
“The idea!” squawked the man with the long neck, his head seeming to bob faster than ever, as if it sought to express by its excited movements the indignant emotions his tongue could not utter.
“My dear lady, I would not remain here to be thus insulted,” declared the gallant man, bending toward her, and endeavoring to summon a look of concern to his treacherous countenance.
“He should be placed in irons!” blurted the fierce-appearing little man, his red whiskers seeming to work and squirm with intense excitement and anger.
“He ought to have his head broken!” roared the big man, his crooked eye still seeming to glare at the white horse in a most terrible and awesome manner.
Others of the assembled crowd murmured to themselves in a most indignant manner, all seeming to regard Frank as the offender.
Frank took out his watch and looked at it.
“Gracious!” he mentally exclaimed, “time is flying. If this keeps up much longer, I’ll not reach Puelbo to-day.”
“Now he shows his anxiety and concern,” said a voice in the crowd.
“He’s beginning to be frightened,” said another voice.
“He’s anxious to get away,” said a third.
“But he can’t get away,” said a fourth.
“This is all very interesting,” thought Frank; “but it is decidedly unpleasant.”
“Waal, whut in time’s sake is goin’ on here, I’d like ter know?” cried a voice that was familiar to Frank, and a tall, lank, countrified-appearing youth came up to the outskirts of the crowd, stood on his tiptoes, and peered over.
It was Ephraim Gallup, and he saw Frank.
“Waal, darned if it ain’t——”
Merry made a swift movement, clapping a finger to his lips, and Gallup, usually rather slow to tumble to anything, understood him at once, relapsing into silence.
“Let me git in here where I kin see the fun,” he said, and he elbowed the people aside as he forced his way through the crowd.
It did not take him long to reach the center of the throng, although a number of persons were indignant at his manner of thrusting them aside or stepping on their feet.
“Whut’s up?” he asked. “Ef there’s anything goin’ on, I kainder want to see it.”
“This young masher has insulted this lady!” explained the man with the bobbing head.
“Sho!” exclaimed Gallup. “Yeou don’t say so, mister! Waal, I am s’prised!”
“He has treated her in an outrageous manner!” added the man with the agitated and fiery whiskers.
“I do declare!” ejaculated Ephraim. “I’d never thought it of him, by thutter!”
“The lady requires protection,” declared the gallant man with the mismated wearing apparel.
“Yeou don’t tell me!” gasped the Vermonter, his surprise seeming to increase. “Ain’t it awful!”
“But the fellow needs a lesson!” rasped the man with the eye that persisted in looking in the wrong direction. “I think I’ll hit him once or twice.”
“My gracious!” fluttered Gallup. “Hev ye gotter hit him real hard? Don’t yeou s’pose he might hit back?”
“Let him try it!” came fiercely from the giant.
“Be yeou goin’ to hit where ye’re lookin’?” asked the country youth. “Cause ef yeou be, I’d advise that man with the wart on his nose to move.”
At this the man who owned the wart dodged with a suddenness that provoked a titter of laughter from several witnesses.
Ephraim was adding to the comedy of the affair, and Frank bit his lips to keep from laughing outright, despite his annoyance over being thus detained.
The big man with the crooked eye flourished his fists in the air in a most belligerent fashion, and instantly Merriwell gazed at him sternly, saying:
“Be careful, sir! You are imperiling the lives of everyone near you, and you may strain yourself.”
“That’s right, by gum!” nodded Gallup, whimsically. “Yeou may warp one of them air arms, flingin’ it araound so gol-darn permiscuous like.”
“Here comes an officer!”
Somebody uttered the cry.
“It is high time!” exclaimed the little man, trying to soothe his agitated whiskers by pulling at them.
“It surely is,” croaked the lank individual, his head bobbing with renewed excitement.
“Madam, the law will give you redress,” bowed the gallant man, again taking off his silk hat and again clapping it on suddenly, as if a breath of cool air on his shining pate had warned him of the exposure he was making.
“Oh, why didn’t the officer stay away a minute longer, so I might have thumped him!” regretfully grunted the fighting man with the misdirected eye.
The policeman came up and forced his way through the crowd, demanding:
“What does this mean? What is happening here?”
“A lady is in trouble,” the bobbing man hastened to explain.
“In serious trouble,” chirped the bewhiskered man.
“She has been insulted,” declared the gallant man.
“By a masher,” finished the man with the errant eye.
“Where is the lady?” asked the officer.
“There!”
All bowed politely toward the masked woman.
“Where is the masher?” was the next question.
“There!”
Their scornful fingers were leveled straight at Frank Merriwell.
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the woman, “I beg you to protect me from his insults!”
The officer was a gallant fellow. He touched his hat and bowed with extreme politeness. Then he frowned on Merry, and that frown was terrible to behold. He gripped Frank by the collar, gruffly saying:
“You’ll have to come with me.”
Merry knew it was useless to attempt to explain under such circumstances. Every one of the assembled crowd would be a witness against him.
“Very well,” he said, quietly. “I am quite willing to do so. Please do not twist my necktie off.”
“Don’t worry about your necktie!” advised the policeman, giving it a still harder twist. “I know how to deal with chaps of your caliber.”
Now of a sudden Ephraim Gallup began to grow angry. He did not fancy seeing his idol treated in such a manner, and his fists were clenched, while he glared at the officer as if contemplating hitting that worthy.
“It’s a gol-dern shame!” he grated. “This jest makes my blood bile!”
“I don’t wonder a bit,” piped the long-necked man, misunderstanding the Vermonter; “but the officer will take care of him now. He’ll get what he deserves.”
“Oh, will he!” exploded Gallup. “Waal, ef I was yeou, I’d hire myself aout to some dime museum as the human bobber. Yeou teeter jest like a certun bird that I won’t name.”
“Wh—a—at?” squealed the individual addressed, in great excitement. “This to me! Why, I’ll——”
“I wish ter great goshfrey yeou would!” hissed Ephraim, glaring at him. “I’d jest like to hev yeou try it! I’d give yeou a jolt that’d knock yeou clean inter the middle of next week!”
“Why, who is this fellow that seeks to create a disturbance?” blustered the little man, his fiery whiskers beginning to bristle and squirm again. “He should be sat upon.”
The country youth turned on him.
“I wish yeou’d tackle the job, yeou condemned little red-whiskered runt;” he shot at the blusterer with such suddenness that the little man staggered back and put up his hands, as if he had been struck. “Yeou are another meddler! I’d eat yeou, an’ I’d never know I’d hed a bite!”
“This is very unfortunate, madam,” purred the gallant man at the veiled woman’s side. “I am extremely sorry that you have had such an unpleasant experience. Now, if that creature——”
He designated Ephraim by the final word, and Gallup cut him short right there.
“Yeou’re the cheapest one of the hull lot, old oil-smirk!” he flung at the speaker. “Such fellers as yeou are more dangerous to real ladies than all the young mashers goin’, fer yeou are a hypocrite who pretends to be virtuous.”
The man gasped and tried to say something, but seemed stricken speechless.
Now the cock-eyed man was aroused once more. He seemed on the point of making a swing at somebody or something. He pushed his face up close to Ephraim, but still his rebellious eye seemed looking in quite another direction.
“If you want any trouble here,” he said, hoarsely, “I’ll attend to you. I can do that very well.”
Ephraim looked at him, began to smile, broke into a grin, and burst into a shout of laughter.
“Haw! haw! haw!” he roared. “I couldn’t fight with yeou ef I wanted to, fer I’d think yeou didn’t mean me all the time, but that yeou really ought to be fightin’ with some other feller yeou was lookin’ at. Yeou’re the funniest toad in the hull puddle!”
“I’ll arrest the whole lot of you!” threatened the policeman. “Quit that business! Come along to the police station if you want to make any complaints.”
Then he turned to the woman, saying:
“Madam, I presume you will make a complaint against this fellow,” indicating Frank.
“I certainly shall,” she promptly answered; “for it is my duty to teach him a lesson.”
“Will you come to the station?”
“Yes.”
“Permit me to accompany you,” urged the gallant man.
“You are very kind,” she said; “but I think I can get along. I will follow at a distance.”
“All right,” nodded the officer, once more gripping Merriwell’s collar savagely. “March, sir!”
And then they started toward the station.
The bobbing man, the little man, the cock-eyed man, and the gallant man formed behind. Then the crowd fell in, and away they went, with the mysterious veiled woman following at a distance.
Ephraim placed himself at Frank’s side.
“This is a gol-darn outrage!” fumed the Vermonter, speaking to Merry. “Whut be yeou goin’ to do abaout it?”
“I shall have to do the best I can,” answered the unfortunate youth, quietly.
“But yeou won’t be able to start for Puelbo with the rest of the people.”
“It doesn’t look that way now.”
“That’s tough!”
“It is decidedly unfortunate, but I hope to get off in time to join the company before the first performance to-morrow night.”
“Haow did it happen?”
“I hardly know. The woman stopped me and insisted that I should go somewhere to talk with her. I explained that my time was limited, but that seemed to make no impression on her. When I tried to get away she flung her arms around me and screamed. That brought a crowd together, and then she declared I had assaulted her.”
The policeman on the other side of Frank laughed in ridicule. Although he said nothing, it was plain he took no stock in Frank’s story.
“Larf!” grated Gallup, under his breath. “Yeou think yeou know so gol-darned much that——”
“Hush!” warned Frank. “I do not wish you to get into trouble. You must inform the others what has happened to me.”
“It’s purty gol-darn hard to keep still,” declared Ephraim. “I never see sich a set of natteral born fools in all my life! How many of the craowd saw what happened ’tween yeou an’ the woman?”
“No one, I think.”
“An’ I’ll bet a squash they’ll all go up an’ swear to any kind of a story she’ll tell. Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s queer. Wut was her little game?”
“Don’t know that.”
“By gum! it’s some kind of a put-up job!”
“I have a fancy there is something more than appears on the surface. It is an attempt to make trouble for me.”
“That’s right.”
“I hope to see the woman’s face at the police station.”
“Yeou won’t!”
“Why not?”
“She won’t show it.”
“Perhaps the judge will request her to lift her veil.”
“Not by a gol-darned sight! Men are too big fools over women. They’ll take any old thing she’ll say abaout yeou, an’ lock yeou up fer it. She’ll give some kind of name and address, an’ they’ll let her go at that.”
“Well, unless I can get bail right away I shall be in a bad fix. If Kent Carson were in town he would pull me out of it, as he did before.”
The officer pricked up his ears.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “Then you have been arrested in Denver before? This is a second offense! I rather think you’ll not get off as easy as you did the first time.”
“Oh, yeou are enough to——”
“Ephraim!”
With that word Frank cut Gallup short.
In a short time they approached the police station.
“I have been here before,” said Merry, quietly. “This is the station to which I was taken when Leslie Lawrence made his false charge against me.”
Entering, he was taken before the desk of the sergeant, the bobbing man, the little man, the cock-eyed man, and the gallant man following closely, while others also came in.