



Produced by Les Bowler










Smoke Bellew




Contents

  THE TASTE OF THE MEAT
  THE MEAT
  THE STAMPEDE TO SQUAW CREEK
  SHORTY DREAMS
  THE MAN ON THE OTHER BANK
  THE RACE FOR NUMBER ONE




THE TASTE OF THE MEAT.




I.


In the beginning he was Christopher Bellew.  By the time he was at
college he had become Chris Bellew.  Later, in the Bohemian crowd of
San Francisco, he was called Kit Bellew.  And in the end he was known
by no other name than Smoke Bellew.  And this history of the evolution
of his name is the history of his evolution.  Nor would it have
happened had he not had a fond mother and an iron uncle, and had he not
received a letter from Gillet Bellamy.

"I have just seen a copy of the Billow," Gillet wrote from Paris. "Of
course O'Hara will succeed with it.  But he's missing some plays."
(Here followed details in the improvement of the budding society
weekly.)  "Go down and see him.  Let him think they're your own
suggestions.  Don't let him know they're from me.  If he does, he'll
make me Paris correspondent, which I can't afford, because I'm getting
real money for my stuff from the big magazines.  Above all, don't
forget to make him fire that dub who's doing the musical and art
criticism.  Another thing, San Francisco has always had a literature of
her own.  But she hasn't any now.  Tell him to kick around and get some
gink to turn out a live serial, and to put into it the real romance and
glamour and colour of San Francisco."

And down to the office of the Billow went Kit Bellew faithfully to
instruct.  O'Hara listened.  O'Hara debated.  O'Hara agreed.  O'Hara
fired the dub who wrote criticism.  Further, O'Hara had a way with
him--the very way that was feared by Gillet in distant Paris.  When
O'Hara wanted anything, no friend could deny him.  He was sweetly and
compellingly irresistible.  Before Kit Bellew could escape from the
office he had become an associate editor, had agreed to write weekly
columns of criticism till some decent pen was found, and had pledged
himself to write a weekly instalment of ten thousand words on the San
Francisco serial--and all this without pay.  The Billow wasn't paying
yet, O'Hara explained; and just as convincingly had he exposited that
there was only one man in San Francisco capable of writing the serial,
and that man Kit Bellew.

"Oh, Lord, I'm the gink!" Kit had groaned to himself afterwards on the
narrow stairway.

And thereat had begun his servitude to O'Hara and the insatiable
columns of the Billow.  Week after week he held down an office chair,
stood off creditors, wrangled with printers, and turned out twenty-five
thousand words of all sorts weekly.  Nor did his labours lighten.  The
Billow was ambitious.  It went in for illustration. The processes were
expensive.  It never had any money to pay Kit Bellew, and by the same
token it was unable to pay for any additions to the office staff.

"This is what comes of being a good fellow," Kit grumbled one day.

"Thank God for good fellows then," O'Hara cried, with tears in his eyes
as he gripped Kit's hand.  "You're all that's saved me, Kit. But for
you I'd have gone bust.  Just a little longer, old man, and things will
be easier."

"Never," was Kit's plaint.  "I see my fate clearly.  I shall be here
always."

A little later he thought he saw his way out.  Watching his chance, in
O'Hara's presence, he fell over a chair.  A few minutes afterwards he
bumped into the corner of the desk, and, with fumbling fingers,
capsized a paste pot.

"Out late?" O'Hara queried.

Kit brushed his eyes with his hands and peered about him anxiously
before replying.

"No, it's not that.  It's my eyes.  They seem to be going back on me,
that's all."

For several days he continued to fall over and bump into the office
furniture.  But O'Hara's heart was not softened.

"I tell you what, Kit," he said one day, "you've got to see an oculist.
There's Doctor Hassdapple.  He's a crackerjack.  And it won't cost you
anything.  We can get it for advertizing.  I'll see him myself."

And, true to his word, he dispatched Kit to the oculist.

"There's nothing the matter with your eyes," was the doctor's verdict,
after a lengthy examination.  "In fact, your eyes are magnificent--a
pair in a million."

"Don't tell O'Hara," Kit pleaded.  "And give me a pair of black
glasses."

The result of this was that O'Hara sympathized and talked glowingly of
the time when the Billow would be on its feet.

Luckily for Kit Bellew, he had his own income.  Small it was, compared
with some, yet it was large enough to enable