CHAPTER IV.
AL TO THE RESCUE.
"Mrs. Anderson won't play?" almost shrieked Mr. Perley.
"That's what I said--Mrs. Anderson won't play," replied the manager ofthe combination, with the calmness of despair. "Read this."
The note which he handed his companion read as follows:
"MR. A. WATTLES:
"DEAR SIR: I deeply regret my inability to appear this evening as I promised. My husband objects so strongly that I have no alternative but to yield to his wishes. Trusting that this will cause you no inconvenience, I am,
"Faithfully yours,
"BLANCHE ANDERSON."
"'Trusting that it will cause us no inconvenience,'" groaned Mr. Perley."Isn't that like a woman? Well, Wattles, we are in a nice little fixnow. Of course, we shall have to give three-fourths of the audiencetheir money back."
"Yes; but that isn't the worst of it. Think of the roasting the paperswill give us!"
"Don't speak of it. And it's all your fault; you would be fool enough tolisten to that kid."
"Don't say any more, Perley. I must have been out of my head."
"It isn't worth while to get excited, gentlemen," said a calm voice.
And looking in the direction from which it proceeded, the two men saw AlAllston standing in the doorway.
"You young rascal----" began Mr. Wattles, but Al silenced him by agesture:
"There is no time to waste, gentlemen," he said. "I told you that Mrs.Anderson would appear to-night, and she will."
"Do you mean to say," cried Mr. Wattles, "that you can make her do thisin defiance of her husband's will?"
"Her husband will agree after he has had a short talk with me," was theboy's reply. "Go right ahead with your preparations for the performance,gentlemen; Mrs. Anderson will be here as per agreement."
And, without waiting for a reply, Al left the room.
"Well," said Mr. Wattles, drawing a long breath, "I never saw the equalof that kid. Do you know, I think he will do what he has promised."
Mr. Perley shook his head.
"It's out of the question now," he said. "Mayor Anderson is one of thestubbornest men in the world; if he has said that his wife shall notappear, she will not. The boy was talking through his hat."
"Well," said the manager of the New York Comedy Company, "all we can donow is to trust to luck. Go ahead and let the people in, and we'll seewhether this confounded stage-struck female turns up or not. Somehow, Ibelieve the lad knew what he was talking about."
Meantime Al had reached the mayor's house, a pretentious mansion on themost fashionable thoroughfare in Boomville.
In response to the rather supercilious "What is it?" from the servantwho opened the door, he presented his card and asked to see Mrs.Anderson.
"I don't think she'll see you," said the flunky, "but I'll give her yourcard if you wish."
"I do wish," said the boy. "Give her the card, and tell her that I wishto see her on very important business that will admit of no delay."
The man left with the card. In a few moments he returned, saying with agrin:
"She don't know you, and she won't see you."
And with an impudent leer, he extended the card to the boy.
Al took it and hurriedly wrote a few words on the back. Then he returnedit to the servant, saying:
"Give it to Mrs. Anderson again; I think she will see me."
The man hesitated, then said:
"Well, I'll take it to her, but the chances are she'll give me orders tokick you out."
With this cheering assurance he again departed.
"I didn't like to do it," murmured Al, "but there was no help for it."
In a few moments the flunky returned, his manner completely changed.
"Please be kind enough to step into the drawing room, sir," he said,with the utmost politeness; "Mrs. Anderson will be down in one minute."
A few minutes after Al Allston had left the theater a showily dressed,red-faced man of about thirty sauntered into the manager's privateoffice where Mr. Wattles was seated alone.
"So, Wattles, old man," he said, extending his hand, "we meet again."
The manager started to his feet.
"How dare you show your face here?" he cried, angrily.
"Eh! What's all this?" said the newcomer, in real or feigned surprise.
"I don't want to have anything more to do with you. A nice sort ofadvance agent you are, aren't you?"
"There's none better, so they say," replied the fellow, with a tipsyleer. "What are you on your ear about?"
"I have no time to bandy words with you. You are discharged."
"What's that--I discharged? What ails you, Wattles?"
"That's enough, Dick Farley. I told you after your last drunk that ifthe same thing occurred again I should have nothing more to do with you,and I meant it. Get out!"
"But, Wattles, I haven't been on a booze. I have been drugged andkidnaped. Listen and I'll tell you all about it; it's the queerestaffair you ever heard of."
"I guess it is; I know your talent for inventing yarns. I don't want tohear this one."
"Do you mean to insult me?"
And Farley's face reddened.
"That would be impossible."
"It would, eh? See here, Gus Wattles, do you mean to say that you aregoing to throw me over and ruin my chances in the business?"
"It is your own fault. I want to have nothing more to do with you."
"Then I'm bounced?"
"That is it, exactly."
"Oh, it is? Well, I'll show you!"
And the drink-maddened ruffian suddenly drew a knife and, brandishing itabove his head, sprang toward his companion.
In another second the weapon would have descended but for a mostopportune interruption.
"Stop!"
Farley turned and glared in the direction from which the voiceproceeded.
Al Allston stood in the doorway, in his hand a revolver, which wasleveled at the head of the would-be assassin.