“Look here, O'Hara,” he said. “This gold rush is going to be big--the days of '49 over again. Suppose I cover it for The Billow? I'll pay my own expenses.” O'Hara shook his head. “Can't spare you from the office, Kit. Then there's that serial. Besides, I saw Jackson not an hour ago. He's starting for the Klondike to-morrow, and he's agreed to send a weekly letter and photos. I wouldn't let him get away till he promised. And the beauty of it is, that it doesn't cost us anything.” The next Kit heard of the Klondike was when he dropped into the club that afternoon, and, in an alcove off the library, encountered his uncle. “Hello, avuncular relative,” Kit greeted, sliding into a leather chair and spreading out his legs. “Won't you join me?” He ordered a cocktail, but the uncle contented himself with the thin native claret he invariably drank. He glanced with irritated disapproval at the cocktail, and on to his nephew's face. Kit saw a lecture gathering. “I've only a minute,” he announced hastily. “I've got to run and take in that Keith exhibition at Ellery's and do half a column on it.” “What's the matter with you?” the other demanded. “You're pale. You're a wreck.” Kit's only answer was a groan. “I'll have the pleasure of burying you, I can see that.” Kit shook his head sadly. “No destroying worm, thank you. Cremation for mine.” John Bellew came of the old hard and hardy stock that had crossed the plains by ox-team in the fifties, and in him was this same hardness and the hardness of a childhood spent in the conquering of a new land. “You're not living right, Christopher. I'm ashamed of you.” “Primrose path, eh?” Kit chuckled. The older man shrugged his shoulders. “Shake not your gory locks at me, avuncular. I wish it were the primrose path. But that's all cut out. I have no time.” “Then what in--?” “Overwork.” John Bellew laughed harshly and incredulously. “Honest.” Again came the laughter. “Men are the products of their environment,” Kit proclaimed, pointing at the other's glass. “Your mirth is thin and bitter as your drink.” “Overwork!” was the sneer. “You never earned a cent in your life.” “You bet I have--only I never got it. I'm earning five hundred a week right now, and doing four men's work.” “Pictures that won't sell? Or--er--fancy work of some sort? Can you swim?” “I used to.” “Sit a horse?” “I have essayed that adventure.” John Bellew snorted his disgust. “I'm glad your father didn't live to see you in all the glory of your gracelessness,” he said. “Your father was a man, every inch of him. Do you get it? A man. I think he'd have whaled all this musical and artistic tom foolery out of you.” “Alas! these degenerate days,” Kit sighed. “I could understand it, and tolerate it,” the other went on savagely, “if you succeeded at it. You've never earned a cent in your life, nor done a tap of man's work.” “Etchings, and pictures, and fans,” Kit contributed unsoothingly.