Roscoe Havener, the injured actor, in an ambulance. Havener was carried to a dressing room, where he soon recovered consciousness, and his injury was dressed by a physician, who pronounced it a mere scalp wound.

Haley had taken Frank down into the dressing room, where he was profuse in the expression of his thanks.

“Mr. Havener,” he said, “I believe you owe your life to the prompt action of this young man.”

“Yes?” said the actor, staring at Frank.

“Yes,” assured the manager. “He was in a proscenium box, and he sprang onto the stage and grappled with Storms in time to keep the fellow from hitting you again with the heavy end of the whip.”

“Well, I am sure I am much obliged, Mr. Merriwell,” said Havener, holding out his hand, which Frank took.

“Don’t mention it,” said Merry. “I happened to be watching Storms, for I saw he had it in for you.”

“Yes, he was dead nuts on me. I’m the stage-manager, you know, and I have been calling him down lately for drinking. He got so he hated me.”

“I heard him tell you he would ‘fix’ you.”

“Yes, he did that, but I did not dream he would try anything on the stage. I wasn’t prepared at all. The first cut he gave me with that whip seemed to take all the strength out of me.”

“Saw it,” nodded Frank. “Hardly thought he was in the habit of putting it on that way every night.”

“Guess not!”

“The way you cried out told me it was a genuine surprise to you.”

“I should guess yes.”

“That made me ready for what followed, but was not quite quick enough to keep him from hitting you the first time with the butt of the whip. I stopped the blow he intended for a finisher, just the same.”

“And earned my everlasting gratitude, Mr. Merriwell.”

“They were ready to arrest me for interrupting the play,” laughed Frank.

Haley flushed.

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