Smoke Bellew | Page 3

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This etext was prepared from the 1913 Mills and Boon edition by Les
Bowler, St. Ives, Dorest.

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