“I believe I’ll go down there right away,” Demarest said, after a moment’s consideration. “It’s the only chance left, and I have got to decide one way or another at once. It isn’t fair for me to keep the company on a string any longer if there’s not going to be an opportunity of opening here. Won’t you come along with me? You’ve started the thing going, and it’s only fair to see me through.”
“Of course I will,” Dick said quickly. “I’m so keen about it, I don’t want to miss a single trick.”
Getting into their coats, they hurried out of the hotel and five minutes later had reached the old Concert Hall. It was a house of good size and in its prime had been the scene of many well-known productions, but for years having been given over to vaudeville, moving pictures, and shows of a certain grade, it was in a wretched state of dinginess.
Demarest was almost discouraged as he stood in the centre of the orchestra and looked about him. The place seemed utterly impossible, but presently his trained eye took in the various good points, which included an ample stage, though, at present, it was cluttered with odds and ends and backed with faded, crude, fearfully painted scenery.
“Pretty bad, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I can’t imagine a high-grade audience consenting to spend three hours here.”
“All the same,” Dick said quickly, “a little work will make a wonderful improvement. How’s the stage? Is it big enough?”
“Plenty. My sets will fit all right, but I shudder to think what that drop curtain looks like.”
He smiled wryly as he glanced up at the rolled-up curtain.
“I’ve never seen it, but I should imagine it was the limit,” Merriwell answered. “Couldn’t it be painted over, or something like that?”
“I suppose so.”