They had shut the doors of most reputable theatres against him, and he had circumvented them. They had threatened members of the theatrical profession with their displeasure if any of them agreed to play for Demarest, but in spite of that, the young actor had gathered together a very fair company, many of whom had signed with him knowing full well that they were spoiling their chances with the syndicate, but trusting to the talented, magnetic young actor-manager to pull things through. The leading lady, Marion Gray, had refused an offer from Buffer and Lane of twice the money Demarest was able to give her, but it was rumored that she was so attached to the latter that she would have played for him without any salary at all. Demarest himself seemed to be the only one of the company who had not observed the significant signs on the part of the very attractive young lady, and had gone on his way seeming serenely unconscious of the state of affairs. But now this last blow had utterly unnerved him. It was so totally unexpected and had come at a time when he had at last begun to see light through the dark clouds, that it was no wonder he was discouraged. There seemed to be no way by which he could come out ahead this time, and he sat there in the big leather chair, a feeling of hopeless failure in his heart. Dick Merriwell was not so easily downed. He snatched out his watch and, with a swift glance at it, sprang to his feet. “Come on, old fellow,” he said incisively. “We haven’t got a minute to lose.” Demarest stood up slowly, instinctively. His eyes were puzzled. “What——” he began. Dick caught him by the arm and drew him toward the door. “Hustle!” he cried. “Don’t stop to argue!” “But where——” “The printer’s!” broke in Merriwell. “We’ve got to get those bills done to-night!” By this time they were outside the hotel and hurrying down the street. Though he did not quite see what his new friend had in mind, Demarest was unconsciously heartened by the Yale man’s decisive manner, and hope began to dawn again in his breast. “You can’t give up now,” urged Merriwell, as they dodged around a corner and went down the side street almost at a run. “You’ve got to beat them. You’ve got your regular paper ready. We must get this special work printed and placed before morning. It’s the only way. It’s simply got to be done!” “But how can you?” objected the actor. “The printers won’t stay over hours. Lawford won’t put them up in the dark.” “We can try,” Dick ripped out. “If he won’t put them up, somebody else can. It’s a question of your whole future; you can’t lay down now.” Little by little, under the dominating influence of Merriwell’s personality, Demarest’s courage returned and his face brightened. They reached the printing house just as the whistle blew and, dashing upstairs, encountered a swarm of men hurrying down. “Stop a minute, fellows, will you?” Dick said quickly.