“You can’t give up now,” urged Merriwell, as they dodged around a corner and went down the side street almost at a run. “You’ve got to beat them. You’ve got your regular paper ready. We must get this special work printed and placed before morning. It’s the only way. It’s simply got to be done!”
“But how can you?” objected the actor. “The printers won’t stay over hours. Lawford won’t put them up in the dark.”
“We can try,” Dick ripped out. “If he won’t put them up, somebody else can. It’s a question of your whole future; you can’t lay down now.”
Little by little, under the dominating influence of Merriwell’s personality, Demarest’s courage returned and his face brightened. They reached the printing house just as the whistle blew and, dashing upstairs, encountered a swarm of men hurrying down.
“Stop a minute, fellows, will you?” Dick said quickly.
The men paused, a wondering throng, on the stairs. They could see Merriwell’s face but dimly in the light from the single flaring gas jet.
“That order for the bills of the ‘Jarvis of Yale’ production at the Concert Hall which was brought in this afternoon,” he said rapidly but distinctly. “Have they been started yet?”
There was a moment’s pause, and then a voice from the back of the crowd growled:
“Ain’t mor’n half set up.”
“They’ve got to be done by midnight,” Merriwell went on swiftly. “It’s a matter of life and death to my friend, here, boys. He’s simply got to have them then, or he goes under. Won’t enough of your fellows stay to-night to get them out? Every one who helps us out will get a ten-dollar bill.”