CHAPTER XVIII.

A REMARKABLE STAGE DUEL.

Douglas Dunton was “sore.” He felt that, besides other unpleasant things that had happened, he had lost his friend and chum, and he blamed Frank Merriwell for it all.

And when he saw Merriwell carry his part through the second act quite as well as he had done in the first, only getting adrift twice, and then faking lines so that it was unnecessary to prompt him, Dunton actually was sick. His lips, on which there were no coloring, looked blue and cold, and his flesh was clammy to the touch.

When Merriwell won a burst of applause, Dunton cursed the audience for a lot of fools, but took care that his curses were not heard by anyone.

To add to his rage, Cassie had the impudence to sweetly ask him if he didn’t think Mr. Merriwell was doing “real well.”

He did not make a reply—he could not.

“I’ll make a fool of the fellow in the duel scene,” he thought. “I’ll show the audience just what a stick he is before I am disarmed, and I’ll make everybody see that I voluntarily permit him to disarm me. That’s where I’ll get in my work.”

Somehow, when he thought it over, this seemed a weak sort of revenge. He longed to humble Merriwell, to completely humiliate him, to disgrace him, if possible.

He could not hide from himself the fact that Merriwell’s work thus far was really marvelous, and that added to his rage immeasurably.

How was it that this fellow, with no experience on the stage, could take an important part, commit it in such short time, and play it with the skill of a drilled actor?

When the second act was over, Dunton was surly as a dog with a sore ear.

Havener came and spoke to him.

“Merriwell is doing first rate,” said the stage-manager; “but the duel will be difficult for him, and I want you to help him as much as you can. You can help him make it effective, if you will, and I shall be watching. Don’t be foolish, Dunton. You can see now that it was better not to put two persons onto new parts, instead of one, and that’s what would have been done if I had let you play the part Merriwell has. I just spoke to him about you, and he says he holds no hard feelings. He will bury the hatchet and forget all that has happened if you will do the same. Now, come, promise me that you will help him on the duel. Will you?”

Dunton hesitated, a sour look on his face.

“Be a man,” urged Havener. “Promise.”

“Be a man!” Those words cut, and Dunton ground his teeth softly. Then, all at once, he pretended to relent, and he said:

“Oh, well, I can’t forget so quickly, but I’ll do what I can for the fellow on the duel.”

“That’s good,” nodded Havener. “I shall be watching.”

“Yes, I’ll do what I can for him!” grated Dunton, softly, as the stage-manager moved away. “Oh, but you had a crust to come to me and talk like that!”

When the curtain went up for the third act, Dunton was eager for the time of the duel to arrive. His eagerness made him go at his part with more vim than heretofore, and Havener, watching him, nodded his satisfaction, saying to himself:

“I guess the fellow sees at last that he has been making a fool of himself. He’ll be all right, now.”

The third act went with a swing that fairly carried the audience. Bursts of applause were frequent. The play was a success, and Havener knew he would receive congratulations from Haley, who was “on the front of the house.” At last the duel scene was on. It was a forest setting, and Merriwell, the challenged party, had fallen into a snare set for him by Dunton, the villain, by naming swords as the weapons.

Dunton and his second were first on the scene, and the conversation between them was to the effect that in three minutes the time set for the duel would pass, and there were no signs of the challenged party.

Dunton: “He will not come—he dare not come!”

Second: “There is yet time. He may arrive at the last moment.”

Dunton: “He is a coward, from a race of cowards. He poses as a gentleman, but the blood of a craven flows in his veins.”

These words were spoken with an intensity and double significance that Frank, waiting in the wings, did not miss.

Second: “The time is nearly up.”

Dunton: “Yes.”—Looks at his watch.—“There is but one minute more. He will fail to appear, and when next we meet, I will brand him as the cur he is.”

Second: “You will come out of this affair honorably without danger to yourself.”

Dunton: “Danger! Bah! What danger would there be to face him! I would toy with him—play with him as a cat plays with a mouse. I would let him see that he was completely at my mercy. I would laugh at his clumsy efforts, and then, when I had tired of the sport, I would run him through the heart! But I shall not have that pleasure.”—Closes watch with a snap.—“The time is up, and he is not here.”

(Frank enters, followed by his second, with weapons in case.)

Frank: “You are wrong, sir; I am here!”

The audience, whose sympathy was entirely with Merry, gave him a hearty round of applause.

Dunton: “Your craven feet must have faltered slowly on the way.”

Frank: “It was not the fault of our feet, sir; we lost the way, and were forced to seek directions. I assure you that we made all haste, and, now we are here, no time shall be lost.”

Then arrangements were swiftly made for the duel, and soon the two young men stood face to face, stripped of coats and vests, their swords in their hands.

The duel began, and, at the very first, it seemed evident that Dunton was the most skillful swordsman. But Dunton himself soon discovered that Merriwell had lost much of his apparent awkwardness displayed at the rehearsal, and it called out the fellow’s best efforts to beat Frank back and make a display of superiority.

Dunton’s rage increased with every passing moment. He was failing to make such a display of Merriwell as he had hoped, and his anger drove him temporarily insane. With terrible fury he beat Merry back and back.

Frank retreated, watching his antagonist closely. All at once, he saw a deadly glare in Dunton’s eyes, and the fellow hissed:

“Now you die!”

Then he lunged straight at Frank’s heart!

It was no false movement, but it was a savage thrust with murderous intent.

Frank realized his danger on the instant. Dunton, insane with anger, meant to kill him, and then declare it was an accident.

Merriwell leaped aside, and parried with a slight turn of his wrist. The point of his enemy’s sword was turned aside, but it passed through his shirt sleeve.

Realizing he was baffled, Dunton fought like a fiend, and the swords clashed and clanged, sparks flying from the glittering blades.

The audience little dreamed a real duel was taking place on that stage, but never before had they witnessed anything like it, and, as one man, they arose to their feet.

Clash! clash! clash! The ring of steel against steel filled the house.

Like young tigers, the two antagonists crouched and darted and circled and sprang.

It was a most thrilling spectacle.

“Curse you!” panted Dunton, as he was baffled again and again.

Not a word came from Merriwell, but now there was a light in his eyes that his enemy had never seen there.

Dunton could not reach Frank, try as he might, and he began to realize that this fellow whom he despised was really his master with the weapons they held.

The seconds became alarmed and seemed about to interfere, for they realized that there was something more than acting about this wonderful duel.

“Keep back!” ordered Frank. “It will be all right.”

“I’ll do it yet!” vowed Dunton, inwardly.

Now Merriwell was toying with the stage villain, a true villain at heart, and, realizing what a poor showing he was making, Dunton set his teeth and made a last bold dash for the life of his foe.

Right there Merriwell caught Dunton’s blade on his, let it slip past till the hilts met, and then tore the weapon from the fellow’s hand, sending it spinning into the air.

Dunton fell back, with a cry of amazement and horror.

Down came the blade, and Merry caught it gracefully, instantly offering it, hilt first, to his disarmed foe.

Dunton hesitated, then, like a flash, he snatched the weapon and tried to run Frank through!

The audience gasped.

But Merriwell was not caught. Back he went with a spring, and again his sword clanged against that of his enemy.

Now it was not possible for the eye to follow all the movements of those gleaming weapons. Frank was a perfect whirlwind, and the terrible look on his set face frightened Dunton beyond measure.

At last, being unable to withstand Merry, the fellow dropped his sword and cried out for mercy.

“Mercy!” shot from Frank’s lips. “What mercy do you deserve? But go! I would not stain my hands with such treacherous blood!”

Then the curtain came down amid a perfect uproar of applause.