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 Ca.s.sie Lee found Burns seated on a property stump behind the scenes, his face bowed on his hands, his att.i.tude 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 Ca.s.sie'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 hoa.r.s.e over it."

"That's the stuff!" nodded Ca.s.sie. "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, Ca.s.sie 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 a.s.sured 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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."