“You are the hero of the play,” Demarest explained, with twinkling eyes.
“I?” gasped the Yale man. “I don’t understand.”
The actor pushed aside his salad and rested one arm lightly on the table.
“It’s this way,” he said, in his low, musical voice. “Though I had never met you, I had heard a lot about you from mutual friends and had seen you more than once on the diamond and gridiron. Consequently, when I decided that the play should be one of college life with the scene laid in New Haven, I felt that you would make an admirable character for the leading man. Of course, I ran you in under a different name, but I took the liberty of using a good many of your characteristics, and while I wrote I had you constantly in mind. I hope you don’t object, for it was rather cheeky.”
Merriwell laughed.
“Why, no, I don’t mind; but I’m afraid you’ve been stung. There’s nothing of the hero about me.”
“Oh, modesty, thou rare and precious quality!” murmured Demarest. “I’ve made a hero of you, then, against your will. When you’ve read the play you will see yourself in a different light. But I suppose by this time you, are wondering where my troubles come in.”
“A little,” Dick confessed. “So far your career seems to have been an unqualified success.”
“Listen, and you shall hear the dire story. Having the play, it never occurred to me that I could fail to find an opening. Plenty of actors with no more ability than I have been advanced to stellar rôles. That sounds conceited, but it isn’t. It’s a fact. But when I approached my managers, Buffer and Lane, with the proposition, they turned me down. Said the play was all right and wanted to buy it, but wouldn’t give me the leading part. They wanted that for one of their pets. Of course, I refused to let them have it and went to another firm, who were not supposedly connected with Buffer and Lane.
“It was the same story there. Nothing doing for me. I tried still another man with the same result, and then I got mad. If they wouldn’t bring me out I’d produce the play myself. I knew it would make a hit if it got a chance, and I had lately received a legacy from my grandmother, which was enough to cover all initial expenses of the production. So I went blithely on my way, had the scenery done, engaged the company, got the costumes made. I went to one of the independent managers in New York and got him to promise to put me on at his theatre providing the play tried out successfully. And he insisted that the opening performance should be given in New Haven. Of course, he was right. College men are the best critics in the world, and if a play, especially of this sort, succeeds here, it will go anywhere.”