But more than all else the Yale man was attracted by the other’s manner of talking. Whimsical, half bantering, almost careless, there was yet about it an undercurrent of seriousness, which gave the barest hint of the real man beneath that disguising mask and made Dick eager for a more thorough knowledge of the character which he felt would prove more interesting by far than that of the majority of men.
Demarest picked up the card and ordered luncheon with the swiftness and taste of a connoisseur. He evidently had the rare art of selecting an attractive meal without spending a half hour at it. Then, folding his arms loosely, he leaned forward.
“Let’s begin at the beginning,” he said with twinkling eyes. “That sounds a little unnecessary, I know, but so few people really do begin a story where they ought. Probably you’ve noticed it, though. For instance, I am strongly tempted to plunge headfirst into the maelstrom of my troubles, and it is only by a strong effort of will that I bring myself to begin where I ought to lead you gradually thence to a consideration of the worst.”
While he was talking, Dick became conscious of the remarkable beauty and purity of his voice. His tones were rather low, and he spoke with just a hint of the fascinating Southern drawl; but every syllable was clear and distinct, and now and then there was a sudden raising or lowering of the pitch which had a distinctly dramatic effect. Merriwell found himself thinking what an admirable actor the man would make, if his histrionic ability only matched his voice. He was consequently almost startled when Demarest went on:
“Know, kind second self, that I am an actor. From my earliest days I longed to tread the magic boards and pour out my soul to vast applauding audiences through the medium of our immortal dramatists. At the age of twelve I had learned the parts of Hamlet and Brutus. Can you fancy it? Two years later I had built a puppet stage in the attic of our country home and organized a company of which I was, of course, the star. In times of need and scarcity of talent, I have been known to play several parts in one performance. The admission to those matchless performances was, I recollect, a penny. You will perceive that those were the good old days before the trust came upon us and before the régime of the ubiquitous ticket speculator.”
Dick smiled appreciatively. There was something fascinating in the fellow’s whimsical, airy manner.
“But why linger on those far-away times?” Demarest went on quickly. “I only touch upon them that you may see beyond peradventure that I was destined for the stage. Sad to say, my esteemed family thought otherwise. What was cute and cunning in a child became mad folly—in their estimation—when I reached the age of manhood and still persisted in my determination. I haunted the theatre, breathing in the indescribable atmosphere of the place as if it were the nectar and ambrosia of the gods. Then my people became seriously alarmed and packed me off to Cambridge. At first I was in despair and planned to run away, but in the end I stuck it out and I have always been thankful. Unknown to my family, who thought I was following the old-fashioned, stereotyped course, I specialized in elocution, English literature, and the modern languages, which have been of inestimable service to me ever since.”
He paused, as the waiter appeared with the first course and deftly placed it before the two men. Dick was much interested in the recital.
“Of course you persisted in your determination to go on the stage,” he said quickly. “I imagine you had a rather strenuous time after you graduated.”
Demarest sighed and made an expressive gesture with his shapely, brown hands.