“Yes; they arrived at four-fifty,” the actor returned. “Haven’t seen them yet, but they phoned me from the hotel. Yes, thanks to you, I think we’re going to pull through in fine shape.” The car drew up before the New Haven House, and the actor leaped out. “Come in, won’t you?” he urged. “I’d like to have you meet the people. They’re a nice lot.” “Guess I’d better wait until to-morrow,” Merriwell said. “We’ve got a football meeting on hand right after supper, and I’ll have to hustle to get through in time. I wish you’d let me have that manuscript of the play you spoke about, though. I want to read it to-night, if I can manage to stay awake.” “Of course!” Demarest exclaimed. “I’d forgotten all about it. Just wait a second while I get it.” He disappeared into the hotel, returning five minutes later with a square, flat parcel, which he handed to Dick. “There. Don’t hesitate to blue pencil it wherever you find any faults,” he said. “We’ll have the dress rehearsal Thursday morning, and can introduce any changes then. We’ve rehearsed so much that the people are all letter-perfect, and there isn’t any need for holding one until Thursday to give them an idea of this stage. Well, good night. If you feel as weary as I do, you’ll sleep like the dead. See you to-morrow.” Merriwell and Buckhart returned his greeting, and he stood for a moment on the sidewalk, while the car slid on down the street. Dick had a last, swift glimpse of his handsome, happy face, with the sensitive lips curved in a smile of perfect friendliness, and then the car rounded a corner, and the picture vanished. If the Yale man could have had any conception of the extraordinary events which were to take place before he set eyes on Austin Demarest again, he would have been amazed beyond measure. Luckily, however, he was troubled with no premonitions of evil. He ate his usual hearty supper with his customary appetite, took part in the football meeting afterward, and helped decide several important points relative to the great Yale-Harvard game, which was coming off the following week. Then he went promptly back to his rooms, and, getting out the manuscript of “Jarvis of Yale,” settled himself by the table, and commenced to read. Here Buckhart found him an hour later, oblivious to everything but the typewritten sheets before him. His lips were parted, his eyes bright, and a faint flush of excitement was on his cheeks. The Texan paused in astonishment. “By the great horn spoon!” he ejaculated. “What in thunder is the matter with you, pard?” “Don’t bother me!” muttered Dick, without raising his eyes. “I’m almost through.” “Humph!” grunted Buckhart, dropping into a chair. Ten minutes later his roommate looked up, with a sigh. “That’s a dandy play!” he exclaimed, with satisfaction. “A perfect corker! If that don’t go with the people hereabouts, it’ll be because they’re a lot of dead ones. The part of _Lance Jarvis_ is a peach, but I don’t see where I come in.”