“Felix,” said Mr. Noname, “my young friend wants a disguise. It must change his appearance so his best friend will not know him.”
“Oui,” grunted Felix, the withered old keeper of the shop. “I will make him so his own mother could not know him.”
And when Frank issued from the place, less than twenty minutes later, Felix had kept his word. Frank was made up to look like a sap-headed English swell, and his clothes were of the style affected by so many British tourists, who seemed to delight in making themselves as conspicuous and ridiculous as possible. Frank carried a heavy stick, and his hair was combed down over his forehead in a bang. The expression on his face was one of vapid stupidity. He wore a monocle, and he walked in an affected manner.
Thus Frank appeared at the door of the Theater of the Republic, where he paid the price required, and entered. A woman was singing on the stage as Merry came sauntering in. Men were sitting everywhere about the tables, talking to women. No one seemed paying much attention to what was taking place on the stage.
Frank Merriwell looked for the assassin by the pillar—and fancied he found him. A man was loitering near one, his hat pulled over his eyes. This man seemed to scan the face of every person who entered.
“Brattle must be near,” decided Frank.
He took a position where he could watch, and waited to get track of Brattle. The man by the pillar was impatient. It was plain he had about given up. At last, he turned, with an impatient gesture, and declined to remain on the watch longer.
Frank knew well enough that this was one of the ruffians who had attacked him in the saloon. He resolved to try his disguise upon the man.
Approaching the hired assassin, he paused, and drawled:
“Me good fellaw, can yer tell me what houah Anna Held comes on? I have seen the little peach in Hamerica, don’t y’ ’now, and I want to see her hagain, don’t y’ hunderstand. Ya-as, by Jawve!”