Frank Merriwell's New Comedian: or, The Rise of a Star

But Merry had realized that, in the condition in which it then stood, it was more than probable that the play would prove an utter failure should he try to force it upon the public.

This caused him to take prompt action. First he brought the company to Denver, holding all of them, save the two men who had caused him no small amount of trouble, namely, Lloyd Fowler and Charlie Harper.

Calmly reviewing his play at Twin Star Ranch, Frank decided that the comedy element was not strong enough in the piece to make it a popular success on the road; accordingly he introduced two new characters. It would be necessary, in order to produce the effect that he desired, to employ a number of “supers” in each place where the play was given, as he did not believe he would be warranted in the expense of carrying nonspeaking characters with him.

On his return to Denver Frank had hastened at once to look over the “mechanical effect” which had been constructed for him. It was not quite completed, but was coming on well, and, as far as Frank could see, had been constructed perfectly according to directions and plans.

Of course, one man had not done the work alone. He had been assisted by carpenters and scene painters, and the work had been rushed.

Merry got his company together and began rehearsing the revised play. His paper from Chicago came on, and examination showed that it was quite “up to the mark.” In fact, Havener, the stage manager, was delighted with it, declaring that it was the most attractive stuff he had seen in many years.

But for the loss of one of the actors he had engaged to fill one of the comedy parts, Merry would have been greatly pleased by the manner in which things moved along.

Now, however, he believed that in William Shakespeare Burns he had found a man who could fill the place left vacant.

Although Hodge had been ready enough to defend Burns from the young ruffians who were hectoring him on the street, he had little faith in the man as a comedian. Hodge could see no comedy in the old actor. To tell the truth, it was seldom that Hodge could see comedy in anything, and low comedy, sure to appeal to the masses, he regarded as foolish.

For another reason Hodge felt uncertain about Burns. It was plain that the aged tragedian was inclined to look on the wine “when it was red,” and Bart feared he would prove troublesome and unreliable on that account.

“I am done with the stuff!” Hodge had declared over and over. “On that night in the ruffians’ den at Ace High I swore never to touch it again, for I saw what brutes it makes of men. I have little confidence in any man who will drink it.”

“Oh, be a little more liberal,” entreated Frank. “You know there are men who drink moderately, and it never seems to harm them.”

“I know there are such men,” admitted Bart; “but it is not blood that runs in their veins. It’s water.”

“Not all men are so hot-blooded and impulsive as you and Jack Diamond.”

“Don’t speak of Diamond! I don’t think anything of that fellow. I am talking about this Burns. He is a sot, that’s plain. Drink has dragged him down so far that all the powers in the world cannot lift him up. Some night when everything depends on him, he will fail you, for he will be too drunk to play his part. Then you will be sorry that you had anything to do with him.”

“All the powers in this world might not be able to lift him up,” admittted Frank; “but there are other powers that can do so. I pity the poor, old man. He realizes his condition and what he has missed in life.”

“But the chances are that the audience will throw things at him when he appears as a comedian.”

“Instead of that, I believe he will convulse them with laughter.”

“Well, you have some queer ideas. We’ll see who’s right.”

Frank kept track of Burns, dealing out but little money to him, and that in small portions, so that the old actor could not buy enough liquor to get intoxicated, if he wished to do so.

The first rehearsal was called on the stage of the theater in Denver. Merry had engaged the theater for that purpose. The entire company assembled. Frank addressed them and told them that he was glad to see them again. One and all, they shook hands with him. Then Burns was called forward and introduced as the new comedian. At this he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms across his breast, and said:

“Ay! ‘new’ is the word for it, for never before, I swear, have I essayed a rôle so degraded or one that hath so troubled me by night and by day. Comedy, comedy, what sins are committed in thy name!”

Granville Garland nudged Douglas Dunton in the ribs, whispering in his ear:

“Behold your rival!”

“Methinks he intrudeth on my sacred territory,” nodded Dunton. “But he has to do it on the stage, and on the stage I am a villain. We shall not quarrel.”

Burns proved to be something of a laughing-stock for the rest of the company.

“He’s a freak,” declared Billy Wynne, known as “Props.”

“All of that,” agreed Lester Vance.

“I don’t understand why Merriwell should pick up such a creature for us to associate with,” sniffed Agnes Kirk. “But Merriwell is forever doing something freakish. Just think how he carried around that black tramp cat that came onto the stage to hoodoo us the first time we rehearsed this piece.”

“And there is the cat now!” exclaimed Vance, as the same black cat came walking serenely onto the stage.

“Yes, here is the cat,” said Frank, who overheard the exclamation. “She was called a hoodoo before. I have determined that she shall be a mascot, and it is pretty hard to get me to give anything up when I am determined upon it.”

“Well, I haven’t a word to say!” declared Agnes Kirk, but she looked several words with her eyes.

The rehearsal began and progressed finely till it was time for Burns to enter. The old actor came on, but when he tried to say his lines the words seemed to stick in his throat and choke him. Several times he started, but finally he broke down and turned to Frank, appealingly, saying, huskily:

“I can’t! I can’t! It is a mockery and an insult to the dead Bard of Avon! It’s no use! I give it up. I need the money, but I cannot insult the memory of William Shakespeare by making a burlesque of his immortal works!”

Then he staggered off the stage.

CHAPTER X. – AT THE FOOT OF THE BED

Late that evening, after the work and rehearsing of the day was over, Frank, Bart and Ephraim gathered in the room of the first-mentioned and discussed matters.

“I told you Burns was no good,” said Hodge, triumphantly, “I knew how it would be, but he showed up sooner than I expected. I suppose you will get rid of him in a hurry now?”

“I think not,” answered Merry, quietly.

“What?” cried Hodge, astounded. “You don’t mean to say you will keep him after what has happened?”

“I may.”

“Well, Frank, I’m beginning to believe the theatrical business has turned your head. You do not seem to possess the good sense you had once.”

“Is that so?” laughed Merry.

“Just so!” snapped Hodge.

“Oh, I don’t know! I rather think Burns will turn out all right.”

“After making such a fizzle to-day? Well, you’re daffy!”

“You do not seem to understand the man at all. I can appreciate his feelings.”

“I can’t!”

“I thought not. It must be rather hard for him, who has always considered himself a tragedian and a Shakespeare scholar, to burlesque the parts he has studied and loved.”

“Bah! That’s nonsense! Why, the man’s a pitiful old drunkard! You give him credit for too fine feelings.”

“And you do not seem to give him credit for any feelings. Even a drunkard may have fine feelings at times.”

“Perhaps so.”

“Perhaps so! I know it. It is drink that degrades and lowers the man. When he is sober, he may be kind, gentle and lovable.”

“Well, I haven’t much patience with a man who will keep himself filled with whisky.”

Frank opened his lips to say something, but quickly changed his mind, knowing he must cut Hodge deeply. He longed, however, to say that the ones most prone to err and fall in this life are often the harshest judges of others who go astray.

“I ruther pity the pore critter,” said Ephraim; “but I don’t b’lieve he’ll ever make ennyboddy larf in the world. He looks too much like a funeral.”

“That is the very thing that should make them laugh, when he has his make-up on. I have seen the burlesque tragedian overdone on the stage, so that he was nauseating; but I believe Burns can give the character just the right touch.”

“Well, if you firmly believe that, it’s no use to talk to you, for you’ll never change your mind till you have to,” broke out Hodge. “I have seen a sample of that in the way you deal with your enemies. Now, there was Leslie Lawrence – ”

“Let him rest in peace,” said Frank. “He is gone forever.”

“An’ it’s a dinged good riddance!” said Gallup. “The only thing I’m sorry fer is that the critter escaped lynchin’!”

“Yes, he should have been lynched!” flashed Bart. “At the Twin Star Ranch now the poor girl he deserted is lying on a bed of pain, shot down by his dastardly hand.”

“He did not intend the bullet for her,” said Frank, quickly.

“No; but he intended it for you! It was a great case of luck that he didn’t finish you. If you had pushed the villain to the wall before that, instead of dealing with him as if he had the least instinct of a gentleman in his worthless body, you would have saved the girl from so much suffering.”

“She loves him still,” said Frank. “Her last words to me were a message to him, for she does not know he is dead beneath the quicksands of Big Sandy.”

“The quicksands saved him from the gallows.”

“An’ they took another ungrateful rascal along with him, b’gee!” said Ephraim, with satisfaction.

“Yes,” nodded Frank; “I think there is no doubt but Lloyd Fowler perished with Lawrence, for I fancied I recognized Fowler in the fellow who accompanied Lawrence that fatal night.”

“And Fowler was a drinking man, so I should think he would be a warning to you,” said Hodge. “I shouldn’t think you’d care to take another sot into the company.”

“You must know that there is as little resemblance between Fowler and Burns as there is between night and day.”

“Perhaps so, but Burns can drink more whisky than Fowler ever could.”

“And he is ashamed of himself for it. I have talked with him about it, and I know.”

“Oh, he made you believe so. He is slick.”

“He was not trying to deceive me.”

“So you think. He knows where his money comes from to buy whisky. It’s more than even chance that, when you are ready to start on the road, he will give you the slip.”

“He asked me to release him to-day.”

“And you refused?”

“I did. I urged him to stay with us.”

Hodge got up.

“That settles it!” he exclaimed. “Now I know theatricals have wrought your downfall! Your glory is fast departing.”

“Then let it depart!” laughed Frank. “You have been forced to confess yourself mistaken on other occasions; you may on this.”

“Good-night,” said Hodge, and he went out.

Ephraim grinned.

“Some fellows would say it’d be a gol-danged sensible thing fer yeou to git rid of that feller,” he said, nodding toward the door. “He’s gittin’ to be the greatest croaker I ever knew.”

“Hodge is getting worse,” admitted Frank, gravely. “I think the unfortunate end of his college course has had much to do with it. He broods over that a great deal, and it is making him sour and unpleasant. I can imagine about how he feels.”

“If he ever larfed he’d be more agreeable. Danged if I like a feller that alwus looks so sollum an’ ugly. Sometimes he looks as ef he could snap a spike off at one bite an’ not harf try.”

“Wait,” said Frank. “If I am successful with this play, I hope to go back to Yale in the fall and take Hodge with me. I think he is getting an idea into his head that his life career has been ruined at the very start, and that is making him bitter. I’ll take him back, run him into athletics, get his mind off such unpleasant thoughts, and make a new man of him.”

“Waal, I hope ye do,” said Gallup, rising and preparing to go. “There’s jest one thing abaout Hodge that makes me keer a rap fer him.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s ther way he sticks to yeou. Be gosh! I be’lieve he’d wade through a red-hot furnace to reach yeou an’ fight for yeou, if yeou was in danger!”

“I haven’t a doubt but he’d make the attempt,” nodded Frank.

“An’ he kin fight,” the Vermonter went on. “Aout at Ace High, when we was up against all them ruffians, he fought like a dozen tigers all rolled inter one. That’s ernnther thing that makes me think a little somethin’ of him.”

“Yes,” agreed Merry, “Bart is a good fighter. The only trouble with him is that he is too ready to fight. There are times when one should avoid a fight, if possible; but Hodge never recognizes any of those times. I never knew him to try to avoid a fight.”

“Waal,” drawled Ephraim, with a yawn, “I’m goin’ to bed. Good-night, Frank.”

“Good-night.”

Merry closed the door after Gallup and carefully locked and bolted it. Then he sat down, took a letter from his pocket, and read it through from beginning to end. When he had finished, he pressed the missive to his lips, murmuring:

“Elsie! Elsie! dear little sweetheart!”

For some time he sat there, thinking, thinking. His face flushed and paled softened and glowed again; sometimes he looked sad, and sometimes he smiled. Had a friend been there, he might have read Frank’s thoughts by the changing expressions on his face.

At last Merry put away the letter, after kissing it again, and, having wound up his watch, undressed and prepared for bed. His bed stood in a little alcove of the room, and he drew the curtains back, exposing it. Donning pajamas, he soon was in bed. Reaching out, he pressed a button, and – snap! – out went the gas, turned off by electricity.

Frank composed himself to sleep. The dull rumble of the not yet sleeping city came up from the streets and floated in at his open window. The sound turned after a time to a musical note that was like that which comes from an organ, and it lulled him to sleep.

For some time Merry seemed to sleep as peacefully as a child. Gradually the roaring from the streets became less and less. Frank breathed softly and regularly.

And then, without starting or stirring, he opened his eyes. He lay quite still and listened, but heard no sound at first. For all of this, he was impressed by a feeling that something was there in that room with him!

It was a strange, creepy, chilling sensation that ran over Frank. He shivered the least bit.

Rustle-rustle! It was the lightest of sounds, but he was sure he heard it.

Some object was moving in the room!

Frank remembered that he had closed and locked the door. Not only had he locked it, but he had bolted it, so that it could not be opened from the outside by the aid of a key alone.

What was there in that room? How had anything gained admittance?

Frank attempted to convince himself that it was imagination, but he was a youth with steady nerves, and he knew he was not given to imagining such things without cause.

Rustle – rustle!

There it was again! There was no doubt of it this time!

Something moved near the foot of the bed!

Still without stirring, Merriwell turned his gaze in that direction.

At the foot of the bed a dark shape seemed to tower!

Impressed by a sense of extreme peril, Frank shot his hand out of the bed toward the electric button on the wall.

By chance he struck the right button.

Snap! – up flared the gas.

And there at the foot of the bed stood a man in black, his face hidden by a mask.

The sudden up-flaring of the gas seemed to startle the unknown intruder and disconcert him for a moment. With a hiss, he started backward.

Bolt upright sat Frank.

Merry’s eyes looked straight into the eyes that peered through the twin holes in the mask.

Thus they gazed at each other some seconds.

There was no weapon in the hands of the masked man, and Merriwell guessed that the fellow was a burglar.

That was Frank’s first thought.

Then came another.

Why had the man sought the bed? Frank’s clothes were lying on some chairs outside the alcove, and in order to go through them it had not been necessary to come near the bed.

Then Merry remembered the feeling of danger that had come over him, and something told him this man had entered that room to do him harm. Somehow, Frank became convinced that the fellow had been creeping up to seize a pillow, fling himself on the bed, press the pillow over the sleeper’s face, and commit a fearful crime.

Even then Frank wondered how the man could have gained admittance to the room.

Up leaped the former Yale athlete; backward sprang the masked man. Over the foot of the bed Merry recklessly flung himself, dodging a hand that shot out at him, and placing himself between the man and the door.

As he bounded toward the door, Merriwell saw, with a feeling of unutterable amazement, that it was tightly closed and that the bolt was shot in place, just as he had left it.

He whirled about, with his back toward the door.

“Good-evening!” he said. “Isn’t this rather late for a call? I wasn’t expecting you.”

The man was crouching before him, as if to spring toward him, but Frank’s cool words seemed to cause further hesitation. A muttering growl came from behind the mask, but no words did the unknown speak.

“It is possible you dropped into the wrong room,” said Merry. “I trust you will be able to explain yourself, for you are in a rather awkward predicament. Besides that, you have hidden your face, and that does not speak well for your honest intentions.”

Without doubt, the intruder was astonished by Merriwell’s wonderful coolness. Although startled from slumber in such a nerve-shocking manner, Frank now seemed perfectly self-possessed.

Silence.

“You don’t seem to be a very sociable sort of caller,” said Merry, with something like a faint laugh. “Won’t you take off your mask and sit down a while.”

The youth asked the question as if he were inviting the stranger to take off his hat and make himself at home.

The man’s hand slipped into his bosom. Frank fancied it sought a weapon.

Now it happened that Merry had no weapon at hand, and he felt that he would be in a very unpleasant position if that other were to “get the drop” on him.

Frank made a rush at the stranger.

The man tried to draw something from his bosom, but it seemed to catch and hang there, and Merry was on him. The unknown tried to dodge, and he partly succeeded in avoiding Frank’s arms.

However, he did not get fully away, and, a second later, they grappled.

The man, however, had the advantage; for all that Frank had rushed upon him, he had risen partly behind Merry, after dodging. He clutched Frank about the waist and attempted to hurl him to the floor with crushing force.

Frank Merriwell was an expert wrestler, and, although taken thus at a disadvantage, he squirmed about and broke his fall, simply being forced to one knee.

“Now I have ye!” panted the man, hoarsely.

“Have you?” came from Frank’s lips. “Oh, I don’t know!”

There was a sudden upward heaving, and the ex-Yale athlete shot up to his feet.

But the man was on his back, and a hand came round and fastened on Merry’s throat with a terrible, crushing grip.

Frank realized that he was dealing with a desperate wretch, who would not hesitate at anything. And Merriwell’s life was the stake over which they were struggling!

Frank got hold of the man’s wrist and tore those fingers from his throat, although it seemed that they nearly tore out his windpipe in coming away.

On his back the fellow was panting, hoarsely, and Merry found it no easy thing to dislodge him.

Round and round they whirled. Frank might have shouted for aid, but he realized that his door was bolted on the inside, and no assistance could reach him without breaking it down.

Besides that, Merry’s pride held him in check. There was but one intruder, and he did not feel like shouting and thus seeming to confess himself outmatched and frightened.

They were at a corner of the alcove. The partition projected sharply there, and, of a sudden, with all his strength, Merry flung himself backward, dashing the man on his back against that projecting corner.

There was a grunt, a groan, and a curse.

It seemed that, for an instant, the shock had hurt and dazed the man, and, in that instant, Merry wrenched himself free.

“Now this thing will be somehow more even,” he whispered, from his crushed and aching throat. He whirled to grapple with the fellow, but again the slippery rascal dodged him, leaping away.

Frank followed.

The man caught up a chair, swung it and struck at Merriwell’s head with force enough to crush Frank’s skull.

Merry could not dodge, but he caught the chair and saved his head, although he was sent reeling backward by the blow.

Had the fellow followed him swiftly then it is barely possible he might have overcome Frank before Merry could steady himself. A moment of hesitation, however, was taken advantage of by the youth.

The chair was tossed aside, and Merry darted after the fellow, who was astounded and dismayed by his persistence.

Round to the opposite side of the table darted the intruder, and across the table they stared at each other.

“Well,” said Frank, in grim confession, “you are making a right good fight of it, and I will say that you are very slippery. I haven’t been able to get a hold of you yet, though. You’ll come down on the run when I do.”

The man was standing directly beneath the gas jet which Merry had lighted by pressing the electric button. Of a sudden he reached up and turned off the gas, plunging the room in darkness. Then, as Frank sprang toward the jet, something swooped down on him, covering his head and shoulders in a smothering manner!

CHAPTER XI. – A MYSTERY TO SOLVE

Frank realized that some of the clothing from the bed had been torn off and flung over his head. He attempted to cast it aside, but it became tangled so he could not accomplish his purpose as readily as he wished, although he was not long in doing so.

Retreating, he was prepared for an assault, for it seemed that the masked unknown would follow up the advantage he had gained.

No assault came.

Frank paused and listened, and, to his amazement, he could hear no sound in the room. Still, he felt that the man must be there, awaiting for an opportunity to carry out the deadly purpose which had brought him into his apartment at that hour.

It was not pleasant to stand there in the darkness, half expecting to feel a knife buried between his shoulders at any instant.

Gradually Frank’s eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom of the room. Still, he could see nothing that lived and moved. Beyond him was the window, standing open as he had left it, the light wind gently moving the draperies.

“Well,” thought Merry, “I wonder how long the fellow will keep still. He’ll have to make a move sometime.”

He backed up against the door and stood there, facing the window. Placing a hand behind him, he took hold of the knob of the door, which he found was still locked securely. This assured him that the intruder had not escaped in that direction.

Merry felt certain that the man was close at hand. He knew he could unlock and unbolt the door and leap out quickly. He could slam the door behind him and lock it, thus penning the man in there. Then he could descend to the office and inform the clerk that he had captured a burglar.

Somehow, he did not feel like doing that; that seemed too much as if he were running away. He did not fancy doing anything that seemed in the least cowardly, even though it might be discreet.

Further than that, however, it was by no means certain that, even though he locked and secured the door behind him after leaping out of the room, he could hold the intruder captive.

In some manner the man had entered that room without disturbing the lock or bolt on the door.

How had he entered?

Frank looked toward the open window, but he knew it opened upon the face of the hotel, four stories from the level of the street, and that settled in his mind all doubts about the window, for he instantly decided that it had not been possible for the masked unknown to get into the room that way.