When Merriwell won a burst of applause, Dunton cursed the audience for a lot of fools, but took care that his curses were not heard by anyone.
To add to his rage, Cassie had the impudence to sweetly ask him if he didn’t think Mr. Merriwell was doing “real well.”
He did not make a reply—he could not.
“I’ll make a fool of the fellow in the duel scene,” he thought. “I’ll show the audience just what a stick he is before I am disarmed, and I’ll make everybody see that I voluntarily permit him to disarm me. That’s where I’ll get in my work.”
Somehow, when he thought it over, this seemed a weak sort of revenge. He longed to humble Merriwell, to completely humiliate him, to disgrace him, if possible.
He could not hide from himself the fact that Merriwell’s work thus far was really marvelous, and that added to his rage immeasurably.
How was it that this fellow, with no experience on the stage, could take an important part, commit it in such short time, and play it with the skill of a drilled actor?
When the second act was over, Dunton was surly as a dog with a sore ear.
Havener came and spoke to him.
“Merriwell is doing first rate,” said the stage-manager; “but the duel will be difficult for him, and I want you to help him as much as you can. You can help him make it effective, if you will, and I shall be watching. Don’t be foolish, Dunton. You can see now that it was better not to put two persons onto new parts, instead of one, and that’s what would have been done if I had let you play the part Merriwell has. I just spoke to him about you, and he says he holds no hard feelings. He will bury the hatchet and forget all that has happened if you will do the same. Now, come, promise me that you will help him on the duel. Will you?”