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

“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 are

Shews to us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,

To grim necessity; and he and I

Will 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 man

If his chief good and market of his time

Be 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.

CHAPTER XIV. – FRANK’S NEW COMEDIAN

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 on Hamlet’s soliloquy, 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.”

CHAPTER XV. – A NEWSPAPER NOTICE

“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 MERRIWELL

Barry Hattleman Douglas Dunton

Spruce Downing Rufus Small

Crack Hyerman Bartley Hodge

Reuben Grass Ephraim Gallup

Manny Sizzwell William Wynne

Prof. Gash Roscoe Havener

Edwin Treadwell William Shakespeare Burns

Carius Dubad Granville Garland

Spike Dubad Lester Vance

Millie Blossom Miss Cassie Lee

Inez Dalton Miss Stella Stanley

Nancy 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 acts Dick 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 the qui vive.

“The climax of the third act was the great sensational feature of the play. In this act Dick escapes 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 Dubad has appeared on the scene, and, at the last moment, in order to break Dick’s spirit, he reveals that Dick’s guardian has squandered his fortune, so that the hero is penniless and will be forced to leave college. For all of this revelation, Trueheart enters 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, and Trueheart was 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.