CHAPTER XII.

FRANK IS GIVEN A PART.

A few weeks later Frank was startled by a request to take a part himself owing to the illness of one of the actors. The request came from the stage-manager of the “Empire Theater Comedy Company,” which was, in fact, the reorganized “All-Star Combination,” formerly on the road playing a “modernized version” of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” This play was now simply one of the numerous pieces in the repertory of the reorganized company, the donkey and the bloodhounds being relegated to the background for the time being, although the famous “Gold Band” was retained in all its glory.

Barnaby Haley believed in the efficacy of a band of music to draw spectators in small cities and country towns. He rated it next to “paper” in the general run, and even better in some cases.

As for “paper,” three of the pieces in the repertory were “old stand-bys,” and “stock paper” could be obtained for them from any of the big eastern theatrical printing houses.

Haley had retained his grip on the management of the company, although obliged to take in a partner. The partner was the “angel” who saved the company from going to pieces. His name was Zenas Hawkins, a man with theatrical ambitions, who had “money to burn.” Haley was helping him burn it.

Haley realized that “Uncle Tom” had been done to death through the section of the country he was in, and so the reorganized company prepared to put on several other pieces.

Some of those plays they could obtain legitimately. Others were secured from a certain company of “pirates,” located in Chicago, who boasted that they could supply any dramas on the American or English stage.

These plays were secured by the “pirates” with the assistance of expert shorthand writers, who were hired to attend them and take down the lines as spoken by the different actors. From these shorthand notes typewritten manuscript copies of the plays were made, and sold for sums ranging from five to twenty-five dollars, to such unscrupulous managers as cared to purchase and use them.

Of course, this traffic in stolen property was unlawful. The manager who purchased and produced the play was committing a crime, but, until recently, the penalty was simply a fine, usually insignificant when exacted, and the manager could jump on to some other part of the country and go right ahead playing the piece. In nine cases out of ten he would not have money enough to pay the fine, and it cost the rightful owners of the piece more trouble and money to prosecute him than they could afford, as such prosecution seldom or never interfered more than temporarily with the pirating of the play.

Under the amended copyright law of 1895, however, any manager unlawfully presenting a play is liable to a fine of not less than one hundred dollars for the first performance and fifty dollars for each subsequent performance; and offenders who fail to pay the fines imposed may be imprisoned upon order of the court.

This revised law has, in a measure, stopped the pirating of plays, although the fact that the rascally concern in Chicago is still doing business is evidence that there are unscrupulous managers in the country who are willing to take desperate chances in order to play in remote and unfrequented towns the popular dramas of the day.

Barnaby Haley had decided to take such chances, for he had obtained three plays in manuscript from the Chicago thieves. The titles of these plays, however, he had changed, to reduce the liability of detection, and he had resolved to be very careful where he presented them.

Of course, there was no paper for these pieces, but the advertising for the other plays was good enough to attract attention at the start, and the stolen plays would be presented to wind up full week engagements, where a change of bill was required nightly.

Haley had induced Hawkins to “put up” for one “full stand” of printed advertising, made especially for them, and that was “pretty good stuff.”

In the selection of a name for the organization, the crafty and astute Mr. Haley had remembered that there was an “Empire Theater Stock Company,” the fame of which had spread extensively. By calling his aggregation the “Empire Theater Comedy Company” he fancied many people might be deceived into believing it the organization of a similar name, which was handled and controlled by a wonderfully successful theatrical manager.

Roscoe Havener, the former stage-manager, had been retained in his old capacity, for he was a good man and knew his business.

The company had played three days in a town where they were billed to remain for a week, when, one afternoon just before rehearsal, Havener sought Frank Merriwell and requested him to take the place of Mr. Lawrence, who was dangerously ill.

They were on the stage, which was set for the first act of the play to be given that night.

Several of the other members of the company, attired for a dress rehearsal, were present and heard what was said.

One of them, a young man, Douglas Dunton, who played the scheming villain of the piece, listened with great interest.

Leslie Lawrence, the actor who was ill, had been cast for the leading character of the play, a part Dunton had coveted.

“You, Merriwell,” said the stage-manager, “must play the part given to Lawrence. The local stage-manager will have to serve as prompter to-night, and every member of the company must, so far as possible, look after the properties required by him or her. We must get through with this piece somehow, even if you have to read Lawrence’s part.”

Dunton stepped forward.

“It strikes me, Havener,” he said, in his forward way, “that you can make a better arrangement.”

Ross Havener turned and scowled at the speaker, for he was a man who did not fancy receiving suggestions from anyone.

“What?” he said, sharply, like a pistol shot.

Dunton repeated his words in a bold manner.

“What do you mean?” asked the stage-manager.

“It strikes me that it is a mistake to put Merriwell, a raw amateur, onto such a part,” said Dunton, swiftly. “He cannot memorize the lines in such a short time, and he is bound to make an awful mess of the whole play if he tries it.”

Frank said not a word, but his eyes looked the speaker straight through.

Havener turned to Frank.

“Think you can do anything at all with the part in such a short time?” he asked.

“I can try,” was the quiet answer. “I am very apt at memorizing anything, and I believe I can have the greater part of the lines before the evening performance, if I am not required to do anything else.”

“Even if he had the lines perfectly,” put in Dunton, “he could not handle the part.”

“How do you know?” asked the stage-manager.

“Reason will tell anybody that. Why, it is almost a star part! It requires some one with experience and judgment. I have studied the part, for I like it, and I believe I can play it as it should be played. It is the kind of a part that suits me.”

“Hum!” grunted Havener. “What are you driving at? Want to play it yourself?”

“Well, I believe that would be the best way to arrange it.”

“Who’d fill your part?”

“You might put Merriwell on that. It is only about half as long as the other, and it does not make so much difference if it is not played well. The audience hates the villain, anyway, and so what’s the odds if he is rank?”

“So that is the way you feel about your part, is it?”

“Yes; I haven’t liked it from the start.”

Havener drew himself up, and his black eyes glared at Dunton.

“Then, sir!” he exploded; “you are not capable of playing the part as it should be acted, much less a better part, like that given Lawrence! The trouble with you is that you have an enlarged head. I advise you to put it in soak and see if you can’t reduce its size. Get such notions out of your nut, or I shall have to put you onto juveniles. You will play the part assigned to you, and Mr. Merriwell will do his best with the part I gave Lawrence. That settles it, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

Havener turned away, and Douglas Dunton, furious over such a “call down,” gave Frank Merriwell a look of hatred, but remained silent.