From the moment of the departure of the boat, Kit had become absent and restless. His uncle noticed his condition, and attributed it to the fact that the end of the hard toil had come. Only once during supper did Kit speak. “Avuncular,” he said, relevant of nothing, “after this, I wish you'd call me Smoke. I've made some smoke on this trail, haven't I?” A few minutes later he wandered away in the direction of the village of tents that sheltered the gold-rushers who were still packing or building their boats. He was gone several hours, and when he returned and slipped into his blankets John Bellew was asleep. In the darkness of a gale-driven morning, Kit crawled out, built a fire in his stocking feet, by which he thawed out his frozen shoes, then boiled coffee and fried bacon. It was a chilly, miserable meal. As soon as it was finished, they strapped their blankets. As John Bellew turned to lead the way toward the Chilcoot Trail, Kit held out his hand. “Good-bye, avuncular,” he said. John Bellew looked at him and swore in his surprise. “Don't forget, my name's Smoke,” Kit chided. “But what are you going to do?” Kit waved his hand in a general direction northward over the storm-lashed lake. “What's the good of turning back after getting this far?” he asked. “Besides, I've got my taste of meat, and I like it. I'm going on.” “You're broke,” protested John Bellew. “You have no outfit.” “I've got a job. Behold your nephew, Christopher Smoke Bellew! He's got a job! He's a gentleman's man! He's got a job at a hundred and fifty per month and grub. He's going down to Dawson with a couple of dudes and another gentleman's man--camp-cook, boatman, and general all-around hustler. And O'Hara and The Billow can go to the devil. Good-bye.” But John Bellew was dazed, and could only mutter: “I don't understand.” “They say the baldface grizzlies are thick in the Yukon Basin,” Kit explained. “Well, I've got only one suit of underclothes, and I'm going after the bear-meat, that's all.” II. THE MEAT Half the time the wind blew a gale, and Smoke Bellew staggered against it along the beach. In the gray of dawn a dozen boats were being loaded with the precious outfits packed across Chilkoot. They were clumsy, home-made boats, put together by men who were not boat-builders, out of planks they had sawed by hand from green spruce-trees. One boat, already loaded, was just starting, and Kit paused to watch.