CHAPTER IV.—IN THE SMOKER.
So Frank took the company back to Denver. He was able to do so without depositing the check till Denver was reached, as Horace Hobson furnished the funds, holding the check as security.
Hobson went along at the same time.
While on the train Frank made arrangements with several members of his company in the revised version of “For Old Eli,” when the play went on the road again.
He said nothing to Lloyd Fowler nor Charlie Harper. Although he did not make arrangements with Granville Garland, he asked Garland if he cared to go out with the company again, informing him that he might have an opening for him.
Fowler saw Merry talking with some of the members, and he surmised what it meant. He began to feel anxious as time passed, and Frank did not come to him. He went to Harper to talk it over.
Harper was in the smoker, pulling at a brierwood pipe and looking sour enough. He did not respond when Fowler spoke to him.
“What’s the matter?” asked Fowler. “Sick?”
“Yes,” growled Harper.
“What ails you?”
“Disgusted.”
“At what?”
“Somebody.”
“Who?”
“Myself for one.”
“Somebody else?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“You’re it.”
Fowler fell back and stared at Harper. He had taken a seat opposite his fellow actor. Harper returned his stare with something like still greater sourness.
“What’s the matter with me?” asked Fowler, wondering.
“You’re a confounded idiot!” answered Harper, bluntly.
“Well, I must say I like your plain language!” exclaimed Fowler, coloring and looking decidedly touched. “You were in a bad temper when we started for Denver, but you seem to be worse now. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, I see now that I’ve put a foot in the soup. I am broke, and I need money. All I am liable to get is the two weeks salary I shall receive from Merriwell. If I’d kept my mouth shut I might have a new engagement with him, like the others.”
“Then some of the others have a new engagement?”
“All of them, I reckon, except you and I. We are the fools of the company.”
“Well, what shall we do?”
“Can’t do anything but keep still and swallow our medicine.”
“Perhaps you think that, but I’m going to hit Merriwell up.”
“Well, you’ll be a bigger fool if you do, after the calling down you received from him to-day.”
At that moment Frank entered the smoker, looking for Hodge, who had been unable to procure a good seat in one of the other cars. Bart was sitting near Harper and Fowler.
As Frank came down the aisle, Fowler arose.
“I want to speak to you, Mr. Merriwell,” he said.
“All right,” nodded Frank. “Go ahead.”
“I have heard that you are making new engagements with the members of the company.”
“Well?”
“You haven’t said anything to me.”
“No.”
“I suppose it is because I made some foolish talk to you this morning. Well, I apologized, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I presume you will give me a chance when you take the play out again?”
“No, sir.”
Frank said it quietly, looking Fowler full in the face.
“So you are going to turn me down because I made that talk? Well, I have heard considerable about your generosity, but this does not seem very generous.”
“Ever since joining the company and starting to rehearse, Mr. Fowler, you have been a source of discord. Once or twice you came near flatly refusing to do some piece of business the way I suggested. Once you insolently informed me that I was not the stage manager. You completely forgot that I was the author of the piece. I have heard that you told others not to do things as I suggested, but to do them in their own way. Several times before we started out I was on the verge of releasing you, which I should have done had there been time to fill your place properly. Last night you were intoxicated when the hour arrived for the curtain to go up. You went onto the stage in an intoxicated condition. You did not do certain pieces of business as you had been instructed to do them, but as you thought they should be done, therefore ruining a number of scenes. You were insolent, and would have been fined a good round sum for it had we gone on. In a number of ways you have shown that you are a man I do not want in my company, so I shall let you go, after paying you two weeks salary. I believe I have given the best of reasons for pursuing such a course.”
Then Frank stepped past Fowler and sat down with Hodge.
The actor took his seat beside Harper, who said:
“I hope you are satisfied now!”
“Satisfied!” muttered Fowler. “I’d like to punch his head off!”
“Very likely,” nodded Harper; “but you can’t do it, you know. He is a holy terror, and you are not in his class.”
Behind them was a man who seemed to be reading a newspaper. He was holding the paper very high, so that his face could not be seen, and he was not reading at all. He was listening with the keenest interest to everything.
As Frank sat down beside Hodge he observed a look of great satisfaction on Bart’s face.
“Well, Merriwell,” said the dark-faced youth, with something like the shadow of a smile, “you have done yourself proud.”
“Let’s go forward,” suggested Merry. “The smoke is pretty thick here, and some of it from those pipes is rank. I want to talk with you.”
So they got up and left the car.
As they went out, Fowler glared at Merriwell’s back, hissing:
“Oh, I’d like to get even with you!”
Instantly the man behind lowered his paper, leaned forward, and said:
“I see you do not like Mr. Merriwell much. If you want to get even with him, I may be able to show you how to do it.”
With startled exclamations, both Harper and Fowler turned round. The man behind was looking at them over the edge of his paper.
“Who are you?” demanded Fowler.
“I think you know me,” said the man, lowering his paper.
Lawrence sat there!
In Denver Frank was accompanied to the bank by Mr. Hobson. It happened that Kent Carson, a well-known rancher whom Frank had met, was making a deposit at the bank.
“Hello, young man!” cried the rancher, in surprise. “I thought you were on the road with your show?”
“I was,” smiled Frank, “but met disaster at the very start, and did not get further than Puelbo.”
“Well, that’s tough!” said Carson, sympathetically. “What was the matter?”
“A number of things,” confessed Frank. “The play was not strong enough without sensational features. I have found it necessary to introduce a mechanical effect, besides rewriting a part of the play. I shall start out again with it as soon as I can get it into shape.”
“Then your backer is all right? He’s standing by you?”
“On the contrary,” smiled Merry, “he skipped out from Puelbo yesterday morning, leaving me and the company in the lurch.”
“Well, that was ornery!” said Carson. “What are you going to do without a backer?”
“Back myself. I have the money now to do so. I am here to make a deposit.”
Then it came about that he told Mr. Carson of his good fortune, and the rancher congratulated him most heartily.
Frank presented his check for deposit, asking for a check book. The eyes of the receiving teller bulged when he saw the amount of the check. He looked Frank over critically.
Mr. Hobson had introduced Frank, and the teller asked him if he could vouch for the identity of the young man.
“I can,” was the answer.
“So can I,” spoke up Kent Carson. “I reckon my word is good here. I’ll stand behind this young man.”
“Are you willing to put your name on the back of this check, Mr. Carson?” asked the teller.
“Hand it over,” directed the rancher.
He took the check and endorsed it with his name.
“There,” he said, “I reckon you know it’s good now.”
“Yes,” said the teller. “There will be no delay now. Mr. Merriwell can draw on us at once.”
Frank thanked Mr. Carson heartily.
“That’s all right,” said the cattleman, in an offhand way. “I allow that a chap who will defend a ragged boy as you did is pretty apt to be all right. How long will it take to get your play in shape again?”
“Well, I may be three or four days rewriting it. I don’t know how long the other work will be.”
“Three or four days. Well, say, why can’t you come out to my ranch and do the work?”
“Really, I don’t see how I can do that,” declared Frank. “I must be here to see that the mechanical arrangement is put up right.”
“Now you must come,” declared Carson. “I won’t take no for your answer. You can give instructions for that business. I suppose you have a plan of it?”
“Not yet, but I shall have before night.”
“Can you get your business here done to-day?”
“I may be able to, but I am not sure.”
“Then you’re going with me to-morrow.”
“I can’t leave my friends who are——”
“Bring them right along. It doesn’t make a bit of difference if there are twenty of them. I’ll find places for them, and they shall have the best the Twin Star affords. Now, if you refuse that offer, you and I are enemies.”
The man said this laughingly, but he placed Frank in an awkward position. He had just done a great favor for Merriwell, and Frank felt that he could not refuse.
“Very well, Mr. Carson,” he said, “if you put it in that light, I’ll have to accept your hospitality.”
“That’s the talk! Won’t my boy at Yale be surprised when I write him you’ve been visiting me? Ha! ha! ha!”
Mr. Carson was stopping at the Metropole, while Frank had chosen the American. The rancher urged Merry to move right over to the Metropole, and the young actor-playwright finally consented.
But Frank had business for that day. First he telegraphed to the lithographers in Chicago a long description of the scene which he wanted made on his new paper. He ordered it rushed, and directed them to draw on his bankers for any reasonable sum.
Then he started out to find the proper men to construct the mechanical effect he wished. He went straight to the theater first, and he found that the stage manager of the Broadway was a genius who could make anything. Frank talked with the man twenty minutes, and decided that he had struck the person for whom he was looking.
It did not take them long to come to terms. The man had several assistants who could aid him on the work, and he promised to rush things. Frank felt well satisfied.
Returning to his hotel, Merry drew a plan of what he desired. As he was skillful at drawing, and very rapid, it did not take him more than two hours to draw the plan and write out an explicit explanation of it.
With that he returned to the stage manager. They spent another hour talking it over, and Frank left, feeling satisfied that the man perfectly understood his wants and would produce an arrangement as satisfactory as it could be if it were overseen during its construction by Frank himself.
Frank was well satisfied with what he had accomplished. He went back to the American and drew up checks for every member of the old company, paying them all two weeks salary. Lloyd Fowler took the check without a word of thanks. The others expressed their gratitude.
Then Frank moved over to the Metropole, where he found Kent Carson waiting for him.
Hodge and Gallup came along with Frank.
“These are the friends I spoke of, Mr. Carson,” explained Frank.
“Where’s the rest of them?” asked the rancher, looking about.
“These are all.”
“All?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why, by the way you talked, I reckoned you were going to bring your whole company along.”
He remembered Hodge, whom he had seen with Frank once before, and he shook hands with both Bart and Ephraim.
“You are lucky to be counted as friends of a young man like Mr. Merriwell,” said the cattleman. “That is, you’re lucky if he’s anything like what my boy wrote that he was. My boy is a great admirer of him.”
“It’s strange I don’t remember your son,” said Frank.
“Why, he’s a freshman.”
“Yes, but I know a large number of freshmen.”
“So my boy said. Said you knew them because some of them had been trying to do you a bad turn; but he was glad to see you get the best of them, for you were all right. He said the freshmen as a class thought so, too.”
“Your son was very complimentary. If I return to Yale, I shall look him up.”
“Then you contemplate returning to college?”
“I do.”
“When?”
“Next fall, if I do not lose my money backing my play.”
“Oh, you won’t lose forty-three thousand dollars.”
“That is not all mine to lose. Only one-fifth of that belongs to me, and I can lose that sum.”
“Then why don’t you let the show business alone and go back to college on that?”
“Because I have determined to make a success with this play, and I will not give up. Never yet in my life have I been defeated in an undertaking, and I will not be defeated now.”
The rancher looked at Frank with still greater admiration.
“You make me think of some verses I read once,” he said. “I’ve always remembered them, and I think they’ve had something to do with my success in life. They were written by Holmes.”
The rancher paused, endeavoring to recall the lines. It was plain to Frank that he was not a highly educated man, but he was highly intelligent—a man who had won his way in the world by his own efforts and determination. For that reason, he admired determination in others.
“I have it!” exclaimed the rancher. “Here it is:
“‘Be firm! One constant element in luck
Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck.
See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake’s thrill,
Clung to its base and greets the sunrise still.
Stick to your aim; the mongrel’s hold will slip,
But only crowbars loose the bulldog’s grip;
Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields
Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields.’”
CHAPTER V.—NATURE’S NOBLEMAN.
Frank found the Twin Star Ranch a pleasant place. The house was large and well furnished, everything being in far better taste than he had expected.
Merry knew something of ranches and ranch life which, however, he said nothing about. He was supposed to be a very tender tenderfoot. Nobody dreamed he had ever handled a lariat, ridden a bucking broncho, or taken part in a round-up.
Gallup roamed about the ranch, inspecting everything, and he was a source of constant amusement to the “punchers,” as the cowboys were called.
After one of these tours of inspection, he came back to the room where Frank and Bart were sitting, filled with amazement.
“Vermont farms are different from this one,” smiled Merry.
“Waal, naow yeou’re talkin’! I’d like ter know haow they ever do the milkin’ here. I don’t b’lieve all ther men they’ve got kin milk so menny caows. Why, I saw a hull drove of more’n five hundred cattle about here on the farm, an’ they told me them warn’t a pinch of what Mr. Carson owns. Gosh all hemlock! but he must be rich!”
“Mr. Carson seems to be pretty well fixed,” said Merry.
“That’s so. He’s got a fine place here, only it’s too gol-dinged mernoternous.”
“Monotonous? How?”
“The graound’s too flat. Ain’t any hills to rest a feller’s eyes ag’inst. I tell yeou it does a man good to go aout where he kin see somethin’ besides a lot of flatness an’ sky. There ain’t northin’ in the world purtier than the Varmount hills. In summer they’re all green an’ covered with grass an’ trees, an’ daown in the valleys is the streams an’ rivers runnin’ along, sometimes swift an’ foamin’, sometimes slow an’ smooth, like glars. An’ ther cattle are feedin’ on ther hills, an’ ther folks are to work on their farms, an’ ther farm haouses, all painted white, are somethin’ purty ter see. They jest do a man’s heart an’ soul good. An’ then when it is good summer weather in Varmount, I be dad-bimmed if there’s any better weather nowhere! Ther sun jest shines right daown as if it was glad to git a look at sech a purty country, an’ ther sky’s as blue as Elsie Bellwood’s eyes. Ther birds are singin’ in ther trees, an’ ther bees go hummin’ in ther clover fields, an’ there’s sich a gol-durn good feelin’ gits inter a feller that he jest wants ter larf an’ shaout all ther time. Aout here there ain’t no trees fer ther birds ter sing in, an’ there don’t seem ter be northin’ but flat graound an’ cattle an’ sky.”
Frank had been listening with interest to the words of the country boy. A lover of nature himself, Merry realized that Gallup’s soul had been deeply impressed by the fair features of nature around his country home.
“Yes, Ephraim,” he said, “Vermont is very picturesque and beautiful. The Vermont hills are something once seen never to be forgotten.”
Gallup was warmed up over his subject.
“But when it comes to daownright purtiness,” he went on, “there ain’t northing like Varmount in the fall fer that. Then ev’ry day yeou kin see ther purtiest sights human eyes ever saw. Then is the time them hills is wuth seein’. First the leaves on ther maples, an’ beeches, an’ oaks they begin ter turn yaller an’ red a little bit. Then ther frost comes more, an’ them leaves turn red an’ gold till it seems that ther hull sides of them hills is jest like a purty painted picter. The green of the cedars an’ furs jest orfsets the yaller an’ gold. Where there is rocks on the hills, they seem to turn purple an’ blue in the fall, an’ they look purty, too—purtier’n they do at any other time. I uster jest go aout an’ set right daown an’ look at them air hills by the hour, an’ I uster say to myself I didn’t see haow heaven could be any purtier than the Varmount hills in ther fall.
“But there was folks,” he went on, whut lived right there where all them purty sights was an’ never saw um. They warn’t blind, neither. I know some folks I spoke to abaout how purty the hills looked told me they hedn’t noticed um! Naow, what du yeou think of that? I’ve even hed folks tell me they couldn’t see northin’ purty abaout um! Naow whut do yeou think of that? I ruther guess them folks missed half ther fun of livin’. They was born with somethin’ ther matter with um.
“It uster do me good ter take my old muzzle-loadin’ gun an’ go aout in the woods trampin’ in the fall. I uster like ter walk where the leaves hed fell jest to hear um rustle. I’d give a dollar this minute ter walk through the fallen leaves in the Varmount woods! I didn’t go out ter shoot things so much as I did to see things. There was plenty of squirrels, but I never shot but one red squirrel in my life. He come aout on the end of a limb clost to me an’ chittered at me in a real jolly way, same’s to say, ‘Hello, young feller! Ain’t this a fine day? Ain’t yeou glad yeou’re livin’?’ An’ then I up an’ shot him, like a gol-durn pirut!”
Ephraim stopped and choked a little. Bart was looking at him now with a strange expression on his face. Frank did not speak, but he was fully in sympathy with the tender-hearted country youth.
Bart rose to his feet, heaving a deep sigh.
“I’m afraid I missed some things when I was a boy,” he said. “There were plenty of woods for me, but I never found any pleasure in them. I used to think it fun to shoot squirrels; but now I believe it would have been greater pleasure for me if I had not shot them. I never listened to the music of the woods, for I didn’t know there was any music in them. Gallup, you have shown me that I was a fool.”
Then, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked out of the room.
Because Ephraim was very verdant the cowboys on the Twin Star fancied that Mr. Carson’s other visitors must be equally as accustomed to Western ways.
Frank was hard at work on his play, and that caused him to stick pretty close to the house. However, he was a person who believed in exercise when he could find it, and so, on the afternoon of the second day, he went out and asked one of the punchers if he could have a pony.
The man looked him over without being able to wholly conceal his contempt.
“Kin you ride?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Frank, quietly.
“Hawse or kaow?” asked the cowboy.
“If you have a good saddle horse, I’d like to have him,” said Merry. “And be good enough to restrain your sarcasm. I don’t like it.”
The puncher gasped. He was angry. The idea of a tenderfoot speaking to him in such a way!
“All right,” he muttered. “I’ll git ye a critter, but our Western hawses ain’t like your Eastern ladies’ hawses.”
He departed.
Hodge had overheard all this, and he came up.
“You want to look out, Merry,” he said. “That chap didn’t like the way you called him down, and he’ll bring you a vicious animal.”
“I know it,” nodded Merry, pulling on a pair of heavy gloves. “It is what I expect.”
Bart said no more. He had seen Merry ride, and he knew Frank was a natural horse breaker.
The puncher returned in a short time, leading a little, wiry, evil-eyed broncho. He was followed by several other cowboys, and Merry heard one of them say:
“Better not let him try it, Hough. He’ll be killed, and Carson will fire you.”
“I’ll warn him,” returned the one called Hough, “an’ then I won’t be ter blame. He wants ter ride; let him ride—if he kin.”
Frank looked the broncho over.
“Is this the best saddle horse you have?” he asked.
“Waal, he’s the only one handy now,” was the sullen answer. “He’s a bit onreliable at times, an’ you’d better look out fer him. I wouldn’t recommend him for a lady ter ride.”
“By that I presume you mean he is a bucker?”
“Waal, he may buck some!” admitted the puncher, surprised that Frank should ask such a question.
“You haven’t anything but a hackamore on him,” said Merry. “Why didn’t you put a bit in his mouth? Do people usually ride with hackamores out here?”
“He kinder objects to a bit,” confessed the cowboy, his surprise increasing. “People out here ride with any old thing. Mebbe you hadn’t better try him.”
“Has he ever been ridden?”
“Certainly.”
“You give your word to that?”
“Yep.”
“All right. Then I’ll ride him.”
Frank went into the saddle before the puncher was aware that he contemplated such a thing. He yanked the halter out of the man’s hand, who leaped aside, with a cry of surprise and fear, barely escaping being hit by the broncho’s heels, for the creature wheeled and kicked, with a shrill scream.
Frank was entirely undisturbed. He had put on a pair of spurred riding boots which he found in the house, and now the broncho felt the prick of the spurs.
Then the broncho began to buck. Down went his head, and up into the air went his heels; down came his heels, and up went his head. Then he came down on all fours, and his entire body shot into the air. He came down stiff-legged, his back humped. Again and again he did this, with his nose between his knees, but still the tenderfoot remained in the saddle.
“Good Lord!” cried the wondering cowboys.
Bart Hodge stood at one side, his hands in his pockets, a look of quiet confidence on his face.
From an upper window of the ranch a pretty, sad-faced girl looked out, seeing everything. Frank had noticed her just before mounting the broncho. He wondered not a little, for up to that moment he had known nothing of such a girl being there. He had not seen her before since coming to the ranch.
All at once the broncho began to “pitch a-plunging,” jumping forward as he bucked. He stopped short and whirled end-for-end, bringing his nose where his tail was a moment before. He did that as he leaped into the air. Then he began to go up and down fore and aft with a decidedly nasty motion. He screamed his rage. He pitched first on one side and then on the other, letting his shoulders alternately jerk up and droop down almost to the ground.
“Good Lord!” cried the cowboys again, for through all this Frank Merriwell sat firmly in the saddle.
“Is this yere your tenderfoot what yer told us ye was goin’ ter learn a lesson, Hough?” they asked.
“Waal, I’ll be blowed!” was all the reply Hough made.
The broncho pitched “fence-cornered,” but even that had no effect on the rider.
Hough told the truth when he said the animal had been ridden before. Realizing at last the fruitlessness of its efforts, it suddenly ceased all attempts to unseat Frank. Two minutes later Merriwell was riding away on the creature’s back, and Hough, the discomfited cowboy, was the laughing-stock of the Twin Star Ranch.
CHAPTER VI.—A CHANGE OF NAME.
At the open upper window of the ranch the sad-faced, pretty girl watched and waited till Frank Merriwell came riding back over the prairie.
“Here he comes!” she whispered. “He is handsome—so handsome! He is the first man I have seen who could be compared with Lawton.”
Kent Carson had heard of Frank’s departure on Wildfire, the bucking broncho. He found it difficult to believe that his guest had really ridden away on the animal, and he was on hand, together with Bart and Ephraim, when Merry came riding back.
Near one of the corrals a group of cowboys had gathered to watch the remarkable tenderfoot, and make sarcastic remarks to Hough, who was with them, looking sulky and disgusted.
Mr. Carson hurried to greet Frank.
“Look here, young man,” he cried, “I’d like to know where you ever learned to ride bucking bronchos?”
“This is not the first time I have been on a cattle ranch, Mr. Carson,” smiled Frank, springing down from Wildfire.
One of the cowboys came shuffling forward. It was Hough.
“Say, tenderfoot,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, “I allows that I made some onnecessary remarks ter you a while ago. I kinder hinted as how you might ride a kaow bettern a hawse. I’ll take it all back. You may be a tenderfoot, but you knows how ter ride as well as any of us. I said some things what I hadn’t oughter said, an’ I swallers it all.”
“That’s all right,” laughed Frank, good-naturedly. “You may have had good reasons for regarding tenderfeet with contempt, but now you will know all tenderfeet are not alike. I don’t hold feelings.”
“Thankee,” said Hough, as he led Wildfire away.
Frank glanced up toward the open window above and again he caught a glimpse of that sad, sweet face.
Mr. Carson shook hands with Frank.
“Now I know you are the kind of chap to succeed in life,” he declared. “I can see that you do whatever you undertake to do. I am beginning to understand better and better how it happened that my boy thought so much of you.”
He took Frank by the arm, and together they walked toward the house. Again Merry glanced upward, but, somewhat to his disappointment, that face had vanished.
It was after supper that Merry and Hodge were sitting alone on the veranda in front of the house, when Bart suddenly said, in a low tone:
“Merriwell, I have a fancy that there is something mysterious about this place.”
“Is that so?” said Frank. “What is it?”
“I think there is some one in one of those upper rooms who is never seen by the rest of the people about the place.”
“What makes you think so?”
“There is a room up there that I’ve never seen anyone enter or leave. The door is always closed. Twice while passing the door I have heard strange sounds coming from that room.”
“This grows interesting,” admitted Frank. “Go on.”
“The first time,” said Bart, “I heard some one in there weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break.”
“Her heart?” came quickly from Merry’s lips.
“Yes.”
“Then it is a female?”
“Beyond a doubt. The second time I heard sounds in that room to-day after you rode away on the broncho. I heard some one singing in there.”
“Singing?”
“Yes. It was a love song. The voice was very sad and sweet, and still there seemed something of happiness in it.”
Hodge was silent.
“Well, you have stumbled on a mystery,” nodded Frank, slowly. “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know what to make of it, unless some friend or relative of Carson’s is confined in that room.”
“Why confined there?”
“You know as well as I do.”
Frank opened his lips to say something about the face he had seen at the window, but at that moment Carson himself came out onto the veranda, smoking his pipe. The rancher took a chair near, and they chatted away as twilight and darkness came on.
“How are you getting along on your play, Mr. Merriwell?” asked the man.
“Very well.” answered Frank. “You know it is a drama of college life—life at Yale?”
“No, I didn’t know about that.”
“It is. Just now I am puzzled most to find a name for it.”
“What was the name before?”
“‘For Old Eli.’”
“U-hum. Who was Old Eli?”
“There!” cried Merry. “That shows me there is a fault with the name. Even though your boy is in Yale, you do not know that Yale College is affectionately spoken of by Yale men as ‘Old Eli.’”
“No, never knew it before; though, come to think about it, Berlin did write something in some of his letters about Old Eli. I didn’t understand it, though.”
“And the public in general do not understand the title of my play. They suppose Old Eli must be a character in the piece, and I do not fancy there is anything catching and drawing about the title. I must have a new title, and I’m stuck to find one that will exactly fit.”
“I suppose you must have one that has some reference to college?”
“Oh, yes! That is what I want. One that brings Yale in somehow.”
“All you Yale men seem to be stuck on that college. You’re true blue.”
Frank leaped to his feet with a cry of delight.
“I have it!” he exclaimed.
“What?” gasped Mr. Carson.
“The title!”
“You have?”
“Yes; you gave it to me then!”
“I did?”
“Sure thing.”
“What is it?”
“‘True Blue.’ That is a title that fits the play. Yale’s color is blue, you know. People may not understand just what the title means, but still I believe there is something attractive about it, something that will draw, and the audience will understand it before the play is over. ‘True Blue’ is the name! I have been well paid for coming out here, Mr. Carson! Besides entertaining me royally, you have given me a striking name for my play.”
“Well, I’m sure I’m glad if I’ve done that,” laughed Kent Carson.
“I must put that title down on the manuscript,” said Frank. “I feel an inspiration. I must go to work at once. I am in the mood now, and I can write.”
Excusing himself, he hurried into the house. Soon a light gleamed from the window of the room in which he worked, which was on the ground floor. Looking in at that window, Hodge saw Frank had started a fire in the grate and lighted a lamp. He was seated at a table, writing away swiftly.
Kent Carson got up and stood beside Hodge looking into the room.
“Merriwell is a great worker,” said the rancher.
“He’s a steam engine,” declared Bart. “I never saw a fellow who could do so much work and so many things. There is no telling how long he will drive away at that play to-night. Now that he has the title, he may finish it to-night, and be ready to leave here in the morning.”
“If that happens, I shall be sorry I gave the title so soon,” said the cattleman, sincerely. “I have taken a great liking to that young man.”
Frank worked away a long time, utterly unconscious of the flight of the hours. At last he became aware that the fire in the open grate had made the room uncomfortably warm. He had replenished it several times, as there was something wonderfully cheerful in an open fire. He arose and flung wide the window.
The moon, a thin, shining scimitar, was low down in the west. Soon it would drop from view beyond the horizon. There was a haze on the plain. Slowly out of that haze came two objects that seemed to be approaching.
“Cattle,” said Merry, turning back from the window and sitting down at the table again.
He resumed work on the play. He did not hear the door open softly, he did not hear a light footstep behind him, he did not hear a rustling sound quite near, and it was not until a deep, tremulous sigh reached his ears that he became aware of another presence in the room.
Like a flash Frank whirled about and found himself face to face with——
The girl he had seen at the window!
In astonishment Frank gazed at the girl, who was dressed in some dark material, as if she were in mourning. He saw that she was quite as pretty as he had fancied at first, although her face was very pale and sad. The color of her dress and hair made her face seem paler than it really was.
Only a moment did Frank remain thus. Then he sprang up, bowing politely, and saying:
“I beg your pardon! I did not know there was a lady in the room.”
She bowed in return.
“Do not rise,” she said. “I saw you to-day from my window, and I could not sleep till I had seen you again. Somehow you seemed to remind me of Lawton. I thought so, then, but now it does not seem so much that way. Still you made me think of him. I have been shut up there so long—so long! I have not talked to anybody, and I wanted to talk to somebody who could tell me something of the world—something of the places far away. I am buried here, where nobody knows anything to talk about but cattle and horses.”
Frank’s heart was thrilled with sympathy.
“Do they keep you shut up in that room?” he asked.
“No; I stay there from choice. This is the first time I have been downstairs for weeks. I have refused to leave the room; I refused to see my father. I can’t bear to have him look at me with such pity and anger.”
“Your father—he is Mr. Carson?”
“Yes.”
“It is strange he has never spoken to me of you. I was not aware he had a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son.”
In an instant Frank regretted his words. A look of anguish swept over the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering up to her bosom.
“No!” she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the leaves of a deserted house; “he never speaks of me! He says I am dead—dead to the world. He is proud of his son, Berlin, my brother; but he is ashamed of his daughter, Blanche.”
Frank began to suspect and understand the truth. This girl had met with some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. Instantly Merry’s heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most embarrassing, and he knew not what to say. The girl seemed to understand this.
“Don’t think me crazy because I have come here to you in this way,” she entreated. “Don’t think me bold! Oh, if you could know how I have longed for somebody with whom I could talk! I saw you were a gentleman. I knew my father would not introduce me to you, but I resolved to see you, hoping you would talk to me—hoping you would tell me of the things going on in the world.”
“I shall be glad to do so,” said Merry, gently. “But don’t you have any papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?”
“Nothing—nothing! I am dead to the world. You were writing. Have I interrupted you?”
“No; I am through working on my play to-night.”
“Your play?” she cried, eagerly. “What are you doing with a play? Perhaps—perhaps——”
She stopped speaking, seeming to make an effort to hold her eagerness in check.
“I am writing a play,” Frank explained. “That is, I am rewriting it now. I wrote it some time ago and put it on the road, but it was a failure. I am going out again soon with a new company.”
Her eagerness seemed to increase.
“Then you must know many actors,” she said. “Perhaps you know him?”
“Know whom?”
“Lawton—Lawton Kilgore.”
Frank shook his head.
“Never heard of him.”
She showed great disappointment.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I hoped you might be able to tell me something about him. If you can tell me nothing, I must tell you. I must talk to somebody. You see how it is. Mother is dead. Father sent me to school in the East. It was there that I met Lawton. He was so handsome! He was the leading man in a company that I saw. Then, after the company disbanded for the season, he came back to spend the summer in the town where I was at school. I suppose I was foolish, but fell in love with him. We were together a great deal. We became engaged.”
Frank fancied he knew what was coming. The girl was skipping over the story as lightly as possible, but she was letting him understand it all.
“I didn’t write father about it,” she went on, “for I knew he would not approve of Lawton. He wanted me to marry Brandon King, who owns the Silver Forks Ranch. I did not love King. I loved Lawton Kilgore. But the principal of the school found out what was going on, and he wrote father. Then Lawton disappeared, and I heard nothing from him. They say he deserted me. I do not believe it. I think he was driven away. I waited and waited for him, but I could not study, I could not do anything. He never came back, and, at last, father came and took me away. He brought me here. He was ashamed of me, but he said he would not leave me to starve, for I was his own daughter. His kindness was cruel, for he cut me off from the world. Still I believe that some day Lawton will come for me and take me away from here. I believe he will come—if they have not killed him!”
She whispered the final words.
“They? Who?” asked Frank, startled.
“My father and my brother,” she answered. “They were furious enough to kill him. They swore they would.”
She had told Merry her story, and she seemed to feel relieved. She asked him many questions about the actors he knew. He said he had the pictures of nearly all who had taken parts in his two plays. She asked to see them, and he brought them out from his large traveling case, showing them to her one by one. She looked at them all with interest.
Of a sudden, she gave a low, sharp cry. Her hand darted out and caught up one of the photographs.
“Here—here!——” she panted. “You have his picture here! This is Lawton Kilgore—Lawton, my lover!”
It was the picture of Leslie Lawrence!
CHAPTER VII.—THE TRAGEDY AT THE RANCH.
“That?” exclaimed Frank. “You must be mistaken! That man’s name is not Kilgore, it is Lawrence.”
He fancied the girl was crazy. He had wondered if her misfortune had affected her brain.
“This is the picture of Lawton Kilgore!” she repeated, in a dull tone.
“Do you think I would not know him anywhere—under any circumstances? This is the man who promised to marry me! This is the man my father hates as he hates a snake!”
“Well, that man is worthy of your father’s hatred,” said Merry, “for he is a thoroughbred villain. But I think you must be mistaken, for your father met him in Denver. This man had me arrested, and your father followed to the police station, and was instrumental in securing my release. If this man was Kilgore, your father would have found his opportunity to kill him.”
“You do not understand,” panted the girl. “Father has never seen him to know him—has never even seen his picture. If Lawton was known by another name, father would not have recognized him, even though they met in Denver.”
Frank began to realize that the girl was talking in a sensible manner, and something told him she spoke the truth. To his other crimes, Lawrence had added that of deceiving an innocent girl.
“And he is in Denver?” panted the rancher’s daughter. “He is so near! Oh, if he would come to me!”
Frank was sorry that he had permitted her to see the photographs, but it was too late now for regrets.
The girl pressed the picture to her lips.
“You must give it to me!” she panted. “I will take it to my room! I wish to be alone with it at once! Oh, I thank you!”
Then she hurried from the room, leaving Merry in anything but a pleasant frame of mind.
There was a sound outside the window. Frank got up and went over to the window. Looking out, he saw two horses standing at a little distance from the ranch. A man was holding them, and the faint light of the moon fell on the man’s face.
“Well, I wonder what that means?” speculated Frank. “Those horses are saddled and bridled. Who is going to ride them to-night?”
Then he remembered the two forms he had seen coming out of the mist that lay on the plain, and he wondered if they had not been two horsemen.
Something about the appearance of the man at the heads of the horses seemed familiar. He looked closer.
“About the size and build of Lloyd Fowler,” he muttered. “Looks like Fowler, but of course it is not.”
There was a step on the veranda, and a figure appeared at the open window. Into the room stepped a man.
Frank sprang back, and was face to face with the intruder.
“Leslie Lawrence!” he whispered.
“Yes,” said the man, advancing insolently; “I am Leslie Lawrence.”
“What do you want?”
“I want an engagement in your new company. I have come here for it. Will you give it to me?”
Frank was astounded by the insolence of the fellow.
“I should say not!” he exclaimed. “What do you take me for? No, Leslie Lawrence, alias Lawton Kilgore, villain, deceiver of innocent girls, wretch who deserves hanging, I will not give you an engagement, unless it is with an outraged father. Go! If you wish to live, leave instantly. If Kent Carson finds you here, he will know you now, and your life will not be worth a cent!”
At this moment the door was flung open, and Ephraim Gallup came striding into the room, saying as he entered:
“Darned if I knowed there was a purty young gal in this haouse! Thought I’d come daown, Frank, an’ see if yeou was goin’ to stay up all night writin’ on that play of—— Waal, I be gosh-blamed!”
Ephraim saw Lawrence, and he was astounded.
“Didn’t know yeou hed visitors, Frank,” he said.
“So you refuse me an engagement, do you, Merriwell?” snarled Lawrence. “All right! You’ll wish you hadn’t in a minute!”
He made a spring for the table and caught up the manuscript lying on it. Then he leaped toward the open grate, where the fire was burning.
“That’s the last of your old play!” he shouted, hurling the manuscript into the flames.
Both Frank and Ephraim sprang to save the play, but neither of them was in time to prevent Lawrence’s revengeful act.
“You miserable cur!” panted Frank.
Out shot his fist, striking the fellow under the ear, and knocking him down.
At the same time Ephraim snatched the manuscript from the fire and beat out the flames which had fastened on it.
Lawrence sat up, his hand going round to his hip. He wrenched out a revolver and lifted it.
Frank saw the gleam of the weapon, realized his danger, and dropped an instant before the pistol spoke.
The shot rang out, but even as he pressed the trigger, Lawrence realized that Merriwell had escaped. But beyond Frank, directly in line, he saw a pale-faced girl who had suddenly appeared in the open door. He heard her cry “Lawton!” and then, through the puff of smoke, he saw her clutch her breast and fall on the threshold, shot down by his own hand!
Horror and fear enabled him to spring up, plunge out of the open window, reach the horses, leap on one and go thundering away toward the moonlight mists as if Satan were at his heels.
There was a tumult at the Twin Star. There was hot mounting to pursue Lawrence and his companion. Carson had heard the shot. He had rushed down to find his daughter, shot in the side, supported in the arms of Frank Merriwell.
A few words had told Carson just what had happened.
He swore a fearful oath to follow Lawrence to death.
The girl heard the oath. She opened her eyes and whispered:
“Father—don’t! He didn’t mean—to shoot—me! It was—an—accident!”
“I’ll have the whelp stiff at my feet before morning!” vowed the revengeful rancher.
He gave orders for the preparing of horses. He saw his daughter carried to her room. He lingered till the old black housekeeper was at the bedside to bind up the wound and do her best to save the girl.
Then Carson bounded down the stairs and sent a cowboy flying off on horseback for the nearest doctor, a hundred miles away.
“Kill the horse under ye, if necessary, Prescott!” he had yelled at the cowboy. “Get the doctor here as quick as you can!”
“All right, sir!” shouted Prescott, as he thundered away.
“Now!” exclaimed Kent Carson—“now to follow that murderous hound till I run him to earth!”
He found men and horses ready and waiting. He found Frank Merriwell and Bart Hodge there, both of them determined to take part in the pursuit.
“We know him,” said Merriwell. “He fired that shot at me. We can identify him.”
Frank believed that Lawrence had murdered the rancher’s daughter, and he, like the others, was eager to run the wretch down.
They galloped away in pursuit, the rancher, four cowboys, Merriwell and Hodge, all armed, all grim-faced, all determined.
The sun had risen when they came riding back to the ranch. Ephraim Gallup met Frank.
“Did ye git ther critter?” he asked, in a whisper.
“No,” was the answer.
“Then he got erway?” came in accents of disappointment from the Vermonter.
“No.”
“Whut? Haow’s that?”
“Neither Lawrence nor Fowler escaped.”
“Then it was Fowler with him?”
“I believe so.”
“Whut happened to um?”
“They attempted to ford Big Sandy River.”
“An’ got drownded?”
“No. Where they tried to cross is nothing but a bed of quicksands. Horses and men went down into the quicksands. They were swallowed up forever.”
The doctor came at last. He extracted the bullet from Blanche Carson’s side, and he told her she would get well, as the wound was not dangerous.
Kent Carson heard this with deep relief. He went to the bedside of the girl and knelt down there.
“Blanche,” he whispered, huskily, “can you forgive your old dad for treating you as he has? You are my own girl—my little Blanche—no matter what you have done.”
“Father!” she whispered, in return, “I am glad you have come to me at last. But you know you are ashamed of me—you can never forget what I have done.”
“I can forget now,” he declared, thinking of the man under the quicksands of Big Sandy. “You are my daughter. I am not ashamed of you. You shall never again have cause for saying that of me.”
“Kiss me, papa!” she murmured.
Sobbing brokenly, he pressed his lips to her cheeks.
And when he was gone from the room she took a photograph from beneath her pillow and gazed at it long and lovingly.
She knew not that the man had been swallowed beneath the quicksands of the Big Sandy.
The tragic occurrences of the night hastened the departure of Frank and his friends from Twin Star Ranch, although Kent Carson urged them to remain. Frank had, however, finished his play, which, thanks to the prompt act of Ephraim, had been only slightly injured by its fiery experience, and was anxious to put it in rehearsal.
So, a day or so later, Frank, Bart and Ephraim were once more in Denver.
CHAPTER VIII.—THE OLD ACTOR’S CHAMPIONS.
Along a street of Denver walked a man whose appearance was such as to attract attention wherever seen. That he had once been an actor could be told at a glance, and that he had essayed great rôles was also apparent. But, alas! it was also evident that the time when this Thespian trod the boards had departed forever, and with that time his glory had vanished.
His ancient silk hat, although carefully brushed, was shabby and grotesque in appearance. His Prince Albert coat, buttoned tight at the waist, and left open at the bosom, was shabby and shining, although it also betokened that, with much effort, he had kept it clean. His trousers bagged at the knees, and there were signs of mannish sewing where two or three rents and breaks had been mended. The legs of the trousers were very small, setting tightly about his thin calves. His shoes were in the worst condition of all. Although they had been carefully blackened and industriously polished, it was plain that they could not hold together much longer. The soles were almost completely worn away, and the uppers were breaking and ripping. The “linen” of this frayed gentleman seemed spotlessly white. His black silk necktie was knotted in a broad bow.
The man’s face was rather striking in appearance. The eyes had once been clear and piercing, the mouth firm and well formed; but there was that about the chin which belied the firmness of the mouth, for this feature showed weakness. The head was broad at the top, with a high, wide brow. The eyes were set so far back beneath the bushy, grayish eyebrows that they seemed like red coals glowing in dark caverns—for red they were and bloodshot. The man’s long hair fell upon the collar of his coat.
And on his face was set the betraying marks of the vice that had wrought his downfall. The bloodshot eyes alone did not reveal it, but the purplish, unhealthy flush of the entire face and neck plainly indicated that the demon drink had fastened its death clutch upon him and dragged him down from the path that led to the consummation of all his hopes and aspirations.
He had been drinking now. His unsteady step told that. He needed the aid of his cane in order to keep on his feet. He slipped, his hat fell off, rolled over and over, dropped into the gutter, and lay there.
The unfortunate man looked round for the hat, but it was some time before he found it. When he did, in attempting to pick it up, he fell over in the gutter and rolled upon it, soiling his clothes. At last, with a great effort, he gathered himself up, and rose unsteadily to his feet with his hat and cane.
“What, ho!” he muttered, thickly. “It seems the world hath grown strangely unsteady, but, perchance, it may be my feet.”
Some boys who had seen him fall shouted and laughed at him. He looked toward them sadly.
“Mock! mock! mock!” he cried. “Some of you thoughtless brats may fall even lower than I have fallen!”
“Well, I like that—I don’t think!” exclaimed one of the boys. “I don’t ’low no jagged stiff to call me a brat!”
Then he threw a stone at the old actor, striking the man on the cheek and cutting him slightly.
The unfortunate placed his crushed and soiled hat on his head, took out a handkerchief, and slowly wiped a little blood from his cheek, all the while swaying a bit, as if the ground beneath his feet were tossing like a ship.
“‘Now let it work,’” he quoted. “‘Mischief, thou art afoot; take thou what course thou wilt. How now, fellow?’”
The thoughtless young ruffians shouted with laughter.
“Looker the old duffer!” cried one. “Ain’t that a picture fer yer!”
“Look!” exclaimed the actor. “Behold me with thy eyes! Even lower than I have fallen may thou descend; but I have aspired to heights of which thy sordid soul may never dream. Out upon you, dog!”
With these words he reached the walk and turned down the street.
“Let’s foller him!” cried one of the gang. “We can have heaps of fun with him.”
“Come on! come on!”
With a wild whoop, they rushed after the man. They reached him, danced around him, pulled his coat tails, jostled him, crushed his hat over his eyes.
“Give the old duffer fits!” cried the leader, who was a tough young thug of about eighteen.
There were seven boys in the gang, and four or five others came up on the run, eager to have a hand in the “racket.”
The old actor pushed his hat back from his eyes, folded his arms over his out-thrown breast and gazed with his red, sunken eyes at the leader. As if declaiming on the stage he spoke:
“‘You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty
That they pass me by as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.’”
This caused the boys to shout with laughter.
“Git onter ther guy!”
“What ails him?”
“He’s locoed.”
“Loaded, you mean.”
“He’s cracked in the nut.”
“And he needs another crack on the nut,” shouted the leader, dancing up, and again knocking the hat over the old man’s eyes.
Once more pushing it back, the aged actor spoke in his deep voice, made somewhat husky by drink:
“Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent that you may hear; believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom, and awaken your senses, that you may——”
“Oh, that’s too much!” cried the ruffianly young leader. “We can’t stand that kind of guy. What’re yer givin’ us, anyway?”
“He’s drunk!” shouted several.
“Alas and alack!” sighed the old man. “I fear thou speakest the truth.
“‘Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And the fall of many kings.’”
“That’s what causes your fall,” declared the ruffianly leader, as he tripped the actor, causing him to fall heavily.
“What’s this?” exclaimed Frank Merriwell, who, with Hodge for a companion, just returned from Twin Star Ranch, at this moment came into view round a corner. “What are those fellows doing to that poor man?”
“Raising hob with him,” said Bart, quickly. “The old fellow is drunk and they are abusing him.”
“Well, I think it’s time for us to take a hand in that!”
“I should say so!”
“Come on!”
Frank sprang forward; Bart followed.
The old actor was just making an effort to get up. The young ruffian who led the gang kicked him over.
The sight made Frank’s blood leap.
“You cowardly young cur!” he cried, and he gave the fellow a crack on the ear that sent him spinning.
Hodge struck out right and left, quickly sending two of the largest fellows to the ground.
“Permit me to assist you, sir,” said Frank, stooping to aid the actor to rise.
The leader of the gang had recovered. He uttered a mad howl.
“At ’em fellers! Knock the stuffin’s outer them!” he screamed, rushing on Frank.
Merry straightened up instantly. He whirled about and saw the biggest tough coming at him, with the rest of the gang at his back. Then Frank laughed.
“Walk right up, you young terriers!” he cried, in a clear, ringing voice. “We’ll make it rather interesting for you! Give it to them, Hodge!”
Hodge did so. Together the two friends met the onslaught of the gang. Their hard fists cracked on the heads of the young ruffians, and it was astonishing how these fellows were bowled over. Bart was aroused. His intense anger was betrayed by his knotted forehead, his flashing eyes, and his gleaming teeth. He did not speak a word, but he struck swift, strong and sure.
If those chaps had expected an easy thing with the two well-dressed youths who had interfered with their sport, they met the disappointment of their lives.
It actually seemed that, at one time, every one of the gang had been knocked sprawling, and not one was on his feet to face the fighting champions of the old actor.
It was a terrible surprise for the toughs. One after another, they sprang up and took to their heels.
“What have we struck?” gasped the leader, looking up at Frank.
“Get up!” invited Merry, standing over him—“get up, and I will give you another dose!”
“Excuse me!” gasped the fellow, as he scrambled away on his hands and knees, sprang up and followed the rest of the young thugs.
It was over; the gang had been put to flight, and it had been accomplished in a very few moments.
Hodge stood there, panting, glaring about, looking surprised and disappointed, as well as angry.
“That was too easy!” he exclaimed. “I thought we were in for a fight.”
“Evidently they did not stand for our kind of fighting,” smiled Frank. “It surprised them so that they threw up the sponge before the fight was fairly begun.”
“I didn’t get half enough of it,” muttered Bart.
During the fight the old actor had risen to his feet. Now Frank picked up his hat and restored it to him, after brushing some dirt from it. The man received it with a profound bow. Placing it on his head, he thrust his right hand into the bosom of his coat, struck a pose, and cried:
“‘Are yet two Romans living such as these?
The last of all the Romans!’”
“We saw you were in trouble,” said Merry, “and we hastened to give you such assistance as we could.”
“It was a goodly deed, a deed well done. Thy arms are strong, thy hearts are bold. Methinks I see before me two noble youths, fit to have lived in the days of knighthood.”
“You are very complimentary,” smiled Frank, amused at the old man’s quaint way.
The actor took his hand from his bosom and made a deprecating gesture, saying:
“‘Nay, do not think I flatter; for what advancement may I hope from thee?’ I but speak the thoughts my heart bids me speak. I am old, the wreck of a once noble man; yet you did not hesitate to stand by me in my hour of need, even at peril to yourselves. I cannot reward you. I can but offer the thanks of one whose name it may be you have never heard—one whose name to-day, but for himself and his own weakness, might be on the tongues of the people of two continents. Gentlemen, accept the thanks of William Shakespeare Burns.”
“Mr. Burns,” said Frank, “from your words, and your manner, I am led to believe that you are an actor.”
“Nay, nay. Once I trod the boards and interpreted the characters of the immortal bard, for whom I was named. That time is past. I am an actor no longer; I am a ‘has been.’ My day is past, my sun hath set, and night draweth on apace.”
“I thought I could not be mistaken,” said Frank. “We, too, are actors, although not Shakespearian ones.”
“Is this true?” exclaimed the old tragedian. “And I have been befriended by those who wouldst follow the noble art! Brothers, I greet thee! But these are sad, sad days, for the drama hath fallen into a decline. The legitimate is scoffed at, the stage is defiled by the ribald jest, the clownish low-comedy star, the dancing and singing comedian, and vaudeville—ah, me! that we should have fallen into such evil ways. The indecencies now practiced in the name of art and the drama are enough to make the immortal William turn in his grave. Oh, for the good old days! But they are gone—forever gone!”
“It seems strange to meet an actor like you ‘at liberty,’ and so far from the Rialto,” declared Merry.
“I have been touring the country, giving readings,” Burns hastened to explain. “Ah, it is sad, sad! Once I might have packed the largest theater of the metropolis; to-day I am doing well if I bring out a round dozen to listen to my readings at some crossroad schoolhouse in the country. Thus have the mighty fallen!”
“I presume you are thinking of getting back to New York?”
“Nay, nay. What my eyes have beheld there and my ears have heard is enough. My heart is sick within me. I was there at the opening of the season. One Broadway theater was given over to burlesque of the very lowest order, while another was but little better in character. A leading theater close to Broadway was packed every night by well-dressed people who went there to behold a vile French farce, in which the leading lady disrobed upon the stage. Ah, me! In truth, the world hath gone wrong! The ways of men are evil, and all their thoughts are vile. It is well that Shakespeare cannot rise from his grave to look upon the horrors now perpetrated on the English-speaking stage. If he were to be restored to life and visit one of our theaters, I think his second funeral would take place the following day. He would die of heart failure.”
Frank laughed heartily.
“I believe you are right. It would give William a shock, that is certain. But there are good modern plays, you know.”
The actor shook his head.
“I do not know,” he declared. “I have not seen them. If there is not something nasty in the play of to-day, then it must of a certainty have its ‘effect’ in the way of some mechanical contrivance—a horse race, a steamboat explosion, a naval battle, or something of the sort. It seems that a piece cannot survive on its merits as a play, but must, perforce, be bolstered up by some wretched device called an ‘effect.’”