The men paused, a wondering throng, on the stairs. They could see Merriwell’s face but dimly in the light from the single flaring gas jet. “That order for the bills of the ‘Jarvis of Yale’ production at the Concert Hall which was brought in this afternoon,” he said rapidly but distinctly. “Have they been started yet?” There was a moment’s pause, and then a voice from the back of the crowd growled: “Ain’t mor’n half set up.” “They’ve got to be done by midnight,” Merriwell went on swiftly. “It’s a matter of life and death to my friend, here, boys. He’s simply got to have them then, or he goes under. Won’t enough of your fellows stay to-night to get them out? Every one who helps us out will get a ten-dollar bill.” “The day’s work is done,” grumbled one man. “I ain’t goin’ ter work no overtime.” “Me neither,” growled another. “Why in thunder didn’t yer bring ’em in this morning, if yer wanted ’em in such a rush?” snapped a third. “I wants me supper.” There was a restless, forward movement of the crowd, eager to be gone, and Demarest groaned softly. In that single instant he saw his well-laid plans crumbling into nothingness, his fortune swept away, himself ruined. Then Merriwell began to speak again. “Just a minute, boys, till I tell you a little more,” he said quickly. “My friend is an actor who has got the theatrical trust down on him. He wanted to bring out his play in New Haven, at the Arcadian. They wouldn’t let him have that theatre—nor any other in town. They shut him out, but they forgot the old Concert Hall. That’s why the show is coming off there. And now the trust is going to put a play on at the Arcadian Friday night which is as near my friend’s play as they can make it. They think they’ll get ahead of him and make him draw a frost. If these bills aren’t up before daybreak that’s what will happen. Won’t you fellow change your minds and help us?” He had chosen his argument skillfully. The mention of a trust to the average workingman is like a red flag to a bull. They hated the thought of these monstrous creations of modern commerce, and perhaps there was reason for that hate. At any rate, the prospect of foiling a great combination of capital was the only thing which could possibly have induced those printers to work overtime that night, and even at that their consent was rather grudging. “Well, if yer puts it that way,” one said hesitatingly. “I s’pose I kin stay. How about it, Bill?” “I’ll stay if you will.” “Say, mister,” piped up a small boy, one of the devils, “who are you, anyhow?” “Dick Merriwell,” the Yale man answered. “Golly!” exclaimed the youngster, open-mouthed. “The twirler! What d’yer think of dat, Pete?” He grinned engagingly at Merriwell. “I’ll help yer out, Dick,” he said impudently. “Good boy, kid,” the Yale man laughed. “You’re the stuff, all right.”