Buch lesen: «Frank Merriwell's New Comedian: or, The Rise of a Star», Seite 7
He looked up.
Out of the window from which ran the rope, a man was leaning. In his hand was something on which the light from the street lamps glinted.
It was a knife!
With that knife the wretch, whose face was covered by a mask, gave a slash at the rope, just as Merry swung off from the sill.
With a twang, the rope parted!
It was sixty feet to the street below.
Frank fell.
CHAPTER XII. – THE NAME ON THE REGISTER
Not far, however, for he released the rope and shot out his arms. He had swung across so that he was opposite the open window when the rope was cut.
Merriwell knew all his peril at the instant when he swung from the sill of his own window, but it was too late for him to keep himself from being carried out by the rope.
In a twinkling, his one thought was to reach the other window quickly, knowing he would be dashed to death on the paving below if he did not. He flung himself toward that window, just as the rope parted. His arms shot in over the sill, and there he dangled.
Down past his head shot the rope, twisting and writhing in the air, like a snake. He heard it strike on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.
An exclamation of rage broke from the lips of the man in the window above, for he realized that Frank had not fallen with the rope.
He leaned far out, lifted his arm, made a quick motion, and something went gleaming and darting through the air.
He had flung the knife at Frank.
It missed Merriwell, shot downward, and struck with a ringing clang on the stones below.
“Missed!” snarled the man. “Well, I’ll get you yet!”
Then Merriwell drew himself in at the window, and the peril was past.
No wonder he felt weak and limp. No wonder that he was jarred and somewhat bewildered. It was a marvel that he was not lying dead in the street below.
Frank understood the full extent of the peril through which he had passed, and a prayer welled from his lips.
“Thank God!”
He was grateful in his heart, and he felt that he had been spared through the kindness of an all-wise Providence.
It was some moments before he could stir. He lay on the floor, panting, and regaining his strength.
He heard no sound in the room, for all the noise he had made in coming in, and more than ever he became convinced that the room had been occupied by his desperate enemy who had sought to destroy him that night.
There was now no longer a doubt concerning the purpose of the man who had gained admission to Frank’s room. The fellow had not come there for plunder, but for the purpose of harming Merriwell.
Frank rose and sought the gas jet, which he lighted. Then he looked around.
Somehow, it seemed that the room had been occupied that night, although the bed was undisturbed, showing that no person had slept in it.
Frank fancied that his enemy had sat by the window, waiting, waiting till he felt sure Merry was sound asleep.
And Frank had been sleeping soundly. He realized that, and he knew something had caused him to awaken, just in time.
What was it? Was it some good spirit that hovered near to protect him?
He looked all round the room, but could find nothing that served as a clew to the identity of the man who had occupied the apartment.
But the register would tell to whom the room had been let.
Having decided to go down and look the register over, Frank wondered how he was to get back into his own room, for the door was locked and bolted on the inside.
He went to the window and looked out. There was no way for him to reach his window now that the rope had been cut.
“And I should not be surprised if I am locked in this room,” thought Merry.
Investigation showed, however, that the door was unlocked, and he was able to step out into the corridor.
But there he was, shut out from his own room by lock and bolt, and dressed in nothing but a suit of pajamas.
The adventure had assumed a ludicrous aspect. Frank wondered what he could do. It was certain that they would not break into his room at that hour of the night, for the sound of bursting the bolt would disturb other sleepers.
The watchman came down the corridor. He saw Frank and came onward with haste, plainly wondering what Merry was doing there.
“Look here,” said Frank, “I want to know the name of the man who occupies No. 231, this room next to mine.”
“What is the matter?” asked the watchman.
“This person has disturbed me,” said Frank, truthfully. “I am not going to raise a kick about it to-night, but I shall report it to the clerk in the morning.”
“Does he snore loudly?” inquired the watchman. “I didn’t think you could hear through those partitions.”
“Here,” said Frank, who had seen the watchman before, “you know me. My name is Merriwell. I haven’t a cent in these pajamas, but I’ll give you two dollars in the morning if you will go down to the office, look on the register, find out who occupies No. 231, and come back here and tell me.”
Now it happened that Frank had given the watchman fifty cents the night before to do something for him, and so the man was persuaded to go down to the office, although it is quite probable that he did not expect to see the promised two dollars in the morning.
Frank waited.
The watchman came back after a time.
“Well,” asked Merry, “did you look on the register and find out the name of the man who was given No. 231?”
“I did,” nodded the watchman.
“What is his name?”
“William Shakespeare Burns,” was the astonishing answer.
Frank staggered. He told the watchman he had made a mistake, but the man insisted that he had not. That was enough to excite Merry more than anything that had happened to date.
Could it be that Burns, the old actor, whom he had befriended, had sought his life?
It did not seem possible.
If it were true, then, beyond a doubt, the man had been bribed to do the deed by some person who remained in the background.
It did not take Frank long to tell the watchman what had happened. The man could scarcely believe it. He seemed to regard Merriwell as somewhat deranged.
“If you do not think I am telling the truth,” said Merry, “get your keys and try my door. If you are able to open it, I shall be greatly pleased.”
The watchman did so, but he could not open the door of the room.
“Now,” said Merry, “to make yourself doubly sure, go down to the sidewalk in front of the hotel and you will find the rope there.”
The man went down and found the rope. He came back greatly agitated.
“This is a most astonishing occurrence,” he said. “Never knew anything like it to happen here before.”
“Keep your eyes open for the man who had No. 231,” said Merry. “I am going to take that room and sleep there the rest of the night. In the morning the door of my room must be opened for me.”
He went into that room, closed the door, locked it and bolted it, closed and fastened the window, and went to bed. Of course he did not go to sleep right away, but he forced himself to do so, after a time, and he slept peacefully till morning.
In the morning Frank found the door of his room had been forced, so he was able to go in immediately on rising. He had been unable to obtain a room with a private bath connected, but there was a bathroom directly across the corridor, and he took his morning “dip,” coming out as bright as a new dollar.
But the mystery of the midnight intruder weighed heavily on Merry. He felt that he would give anything to solve it, and it must be solved in some manner.
Bart came around before breakfast, and he found Merriwell standing in the middle of his room, scowling at the carpet. Frank was so unlike his accustomed self that Hodge was astounded.
“What’s happened?” asked Bart.
“One of the most singular adventures of my life,” answered Frank, and he proceeded to tell Bart everything.
“Singular!” cried Hodge. “I should say so! You are dead in luck to be alive!”
“I consider myself so,” confessed Merry; “but I would give any sum to know who entered my room last night. Of course the name on the register was false.”
“Are you certain?”
“Certain! Great Scott! You do not fancy for an instant that Burns was the man, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do!”
“You mean you think you do.”
“No; I mean that I know. Burns was not the man.”
“How do you know?”
“Why, hang it, Hodge! Why should that unfortunate old fellow wish to harm me, who has been his friend?”
“Somebody may have hired him to do it.”
“Oh, you’re daffy on that point! Reason will teach you that. If it had been Burns, he would not have registered under his own name. But I absolutely know it was not Burns I encountered. Besides being ridiculous that a man of his years and habits should venture to enter my room in such a manner, the man whom I encountered was supple, strong, and quick as a flash. Burns could not have fought like that; he could not have escaped in such an astonishing manner.”
“Oh, well, perhaps not,” admitted Hodge, who seemed reluctant to give up. “But I have warned you against Burns all along, and – ”
“Oh, drop him now! Somebody else is trying to injure the poor fellow. I want to know who did the job last night, and W. S. Burns will not be able to tell me anything.”
Bart had no more to say, and they went down to breakfast together.
Of course the hotel people promised to do everything possible to discover who had made the assault, but Frank had little confidence in their ability to accomplish anything. In fact, he believed the time had passed to do anything, for it seemed that his enemy had escaped from the hotel without leaving a trace behind him.
Frank thought over the list of enemies who had sought to injure him since he entered theatricals, and he was startled. Three of his enemies were dead. Arthur Sargent had been drowned; Percy Lockwell was lynched, and Leslie Lawrence met his death in the quicksands of Big Sandy River. Of his living enemies, who might be desperate enough to enter his room and seek to harm him Philip Scudder stood alone.
Where was Scudder? Was he in Denver? If so —
“If so, he is the man!” decided Frank.
Merry resolved to be on his guard, for something told him another attempt would be made against him.
CHAPTER XIII. – THE RACE
All that forenoon he worked in the theater setting up the new mechanical arrangement, which had been completed, and preparing for the rehearsal that afternoon.
Rehearsal time came, and the members of the company assembled.
All but Burns.
He was missing.
“What do you think about it now?” asked Bart, grimly.
“The same as I thought before,” declared Frank. “Burns was almost broken-hearted at rehearsal yesterday. It is possible he may not come to-day, for you know he wished to be released.”
“Ah,” said a sad voice, as the person in question appeared; “it is necessity that brings me. I fain would have remained away, but I need the money, and I must do that which my heart revolts against.”
“I believed you would come,” said Frank, greeting the old tragedian. “You will get used to the part after a while. It is better to make people laugh than to make them weep.”
“But it is too late for me to turn myself into a clown.”
“Where did you stay last night?” asked Merry.
“At my humble lodgings,” was the answer.
“A man by your name registered at the hotel where I stop, and had the room next to mine. Is it possible there are two William Shakespeare Burns in the city of Denver?”
The old man drew himself up, thrusting his hand into the bosom of his coat, with his familiar movement of dignity.
“There is but one,” he said – “but one real William Shakespeare Burns in the whole world! I am he!”
“But you were not at the hotel last night?”
“Of a certainty I was not. To that I will pledge mine honor. If another was there under my name, he is an impostor.”
Frank was satisfied, but Bart was not; or, if Hodge was satisfied, he would not confess it.
The rehearsal began. Frank had engaged some people to work the mechanical arrangement used in the third act, and they had been drilled and instructed by Havener.
The first act went off well, the storm at the conclusion being worked up in first-class style. Scarcely a word of that act had Frank altered, so there was very little trouble over it.
The second act was likewise a success, Havener finding it necessary to interrupt and give instructions but twice.
Then came the third act, which Merry had almost entirely rewritten. In that act the burlesque tragedian was given an opportunity, and Burns showed that he had his lines very well, although he ran over them after the style of the old-time professional who disdains to do much more than repeat the words till the dress rehearsal comes.
The third act was divided into three scenes, the second scene being an exterior, showing the river in the distance, lined by a moving, swaying mass of people. Along the river raced the three boats representing Yale, Harvard and Cornell. Keeping pace with them on the shore was the observation train, black with a mass of spectators. As the boats first came on, Harvard had a slight lead, but Yale spurted on appearing, and when they passed from view Yale was leading slightly.
All this was a mechanical arrangement made to represent boats, a train, the river, and the great crowd of spectators. The rowers in the boats were inanimate objects, but they worked with such skill that it was hard to believe they were not living and breathing human beings. Even the different strokes of the three crews had been imitated.
This arrangement was an invention of Merriwell’s own. In fact, it was more of an optical illusion than anything else, but it was most remarkable in its results, for, from the front of the house, a perfect representation of the college boat race appeared to be taking place in the distance on the stage.
Havener was a man who said very little, but he showed excitement and enthusiasm as this scene was being worked out.
When the boats had disappeared, the stage grew dark, and there was a quick “shift” to the interior of the Yale boathouse. The entire front of the house, toward the river, had been flung wide open. Behind the scenes the actors who were not on the stage at the moment and the supers hurrahed much like the cheering of a vast multitude. Whistles shrieked, and then the three boats shot into view, with Yale still in the lead. The characters on the stage proper, in the boathouse, had made it known that the finish was directly opposite the boathouse, and so, when the boats flew across with Yale in advance, it was settled that the blue had won.
Then Frank Merriwell, who had escaped from scheming enemies, and rowed in the race for all the attempts to drug him, was brought on by his admirers, and with the Yale cheer of victory, the curtain came down.
Roscoe Havener came rushing onto the stage and caught Frank Merriwell by the hand, crying:
“Merriwell, you are a genius! I want to say right here that I have doubted the practicability of this invention of yours, but now I confess that it is the greatest thing I ever saw. Your sawmill invention in ‘John Smith’ was great, but this lays way over it! You should make your fortune with this, but you must protect it.”
“I shall apply for a patent on the mechanism,” said Frank. “I am having a working model made for that purpose.”
“That’s right. You have your chance to make a fortune, and I believe you can make it with this piece.”
“It is a chance,” agreed Frank, gravely; “but I shall take it for better or worse. I am going into this thing to make or break. I’ve got some money, and I’ll sink every dollar I’m worth in the attempt to float this piece.”
Frank spoke with quiet determination.
Hodge stood near and nodded his approval and satisfaction.
“It’s great, Merry,” he said, in approval. “It’s something new, too. You will not have any trouble over this, the way you did about the sawmill scene.”
“I hope not.”
Cassie Lee, the little soubrette, who was engaged to Havener, found an opportunity to get hold of Frank’s hand. She gave it a warm pressure.
“I’m so glad!” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “If Ross says it will go, you can bet it will! He knows his business. I’ve been waiting for him to express himself about it, and, now that he has, I feel better. You are right in it, Frank! I think you are a dandy!”
“Thank you, Cassie,” smiled Frank, looking down at her.
And even though he liked Cassie, who had always been his friend, he was thinking at that moment of another little girl who was far away, but whom he had once hoped would create the part in “True Blue” that had been given to Cassie.
In the fourth act Frank had skillfully handled the “fall” of the play, keeping all in suspense as he worked out the problem, one of the chief arts of successful play constructing. Too often a play falls to pieces at once after the grand climax is reached, and the final act is obviously tacked on to lengthen it out.
This one fault Frank had worked hard to avoid, and he had succeeded with masterly skill, even introducing a new element of suspense into the final act.
Merry had noticed that, in these modern days, the audience sniffs the “and-lived-happy-forever-after” conclusion of a play from afar, and there was always a rustling to get hats and coats and cloaks some moments before the end of most plays. To avoid this, he determined to end his play suddenly and in an original manner. This he succeeded in doing in a comedy scene, but not until the last speech was delivered was the suspense entirely relieved.
Havener, who could not write a play to save his life, but who understood thoroughly the construction of a piece, and was a discriminating critic, was nearly as well pleased by the end of the piece as by the mechanical effect in the third act.
“If this play does not make a big hit I shall call myself a chump,” he declared. “I was afraid of it in its original form, but the changes have added to it the elements it needed to become immensely popular.”
When the rehearsal was over Cassie Lee found Burns seated on a property stump behind the scenes, his face bowed on his hands, his attitude that of one in deep sorrow.
“Now, what’s the matter with you?” she asked, not unkindly. “Are you sick?”
The old tragedian raised his sad face and spoke:
“‘Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden; learn good soul,
To think our former state a happy dream;
From which awaked, the truth of what we 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.
