“Huh?” questioned the Westerner. “Oh, nothing,” Dick said hastily. He did not want even Brad to know that Demarest had taken him as a model for the hero of the play. Excepting in a few minor points, he could see no resemblance whatever to himself. The clever young actor had made _Jarvis_ a wonderfully attractive character, fascinating, wholly sympathetic, and lovable. It was what actors term a “fat part,” and, strangely enough, Demarest had succeeded in hitting Merriwell off to a T, in spite of the fact that he had never actually met the Yale man. But Dick, keen as he was in sizing up the character of another man, would never see the resemblance in a hundred years. He was too modest. It seemed to him the height of conceit to imagine for a moment that he was anything like this fellow in the play, who had interested and fascinated him. Consequently he evaded Brad’s question. “So you think it will go, do you?” the Texan inquired presently. “I certainly do,” Merriwell answered. “You want to get all the fellows you can to see it. We must fill the house full for Demarest.” Buckhart looked a little doubtful. “It’s got to be pretty darned good, you know, pard,” he said slowly, “for the boys to keep from guying. You know how many performances have been broken up that way.” Dick stood up, and laid the manuscript on the table. “I know,” he agreed; “but you do your best to fill the theatre, and I’ll guarantee they won’t waste much time guying. They’ll be too much interested in the play.” He yawned. Now that the tension was over, he felt desperately sleepy. “I’m going to bed,” he announced. “I’d have to prop my eyelids up to keep them open five minutes longer.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXI MARION GRAY PLAYS FAIR. Marion Gray was a very charming young woman. Slight, and rather tiny, she had a piquant face which was fascinating. Taken separately, scarcely one of her features would be found quite perfect, but one never scrutinized Marion Gray’s face that way. The ensemble disarmed criticism. Some one had once said that had she been positively ugly she would still have remained none the less attractive; for she had that wonderful, illusive quality of magnetism, without which there is no real success on the stage. And, more than that, she had brains, and knew how to use them. In the comparative short space of three years she had made a place for herself, alone and unaided, in the hearts of the theatre-going public of New York, which is about as difficult as a passage through the eye of a needle by the proverbial camel.