The Taste of the Meat

by Jack London

I.In the beginning he was Christopher Bellew. By the time he was atcollege he had become Chris Bellew. Later, in the Bohemian crowd ofSan Francisco, he was called Kit Bellew. And in the end he wasknown by no other name than Smoke Bellew. And this history of theevolution of his name is the history of his evolution. Nor would ithave happened had he not had a fond mother and an iron uncle, andhad 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 someplays." (Here followed details in the improvement of the buddingsociety weekly.) "Go down and see him. Let him think they're yourown 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'mgetting 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 andart criticism. Another thing, San Francisco has always had aliterature of her own. But she hasn't any now. Tell him to kickaround and get some gink to turn out a live serial, and to put intoit the real romance and glamour and colour of San Francisco."And down to the office of the Billow went Kit Bellew faithfully toinstruct. O'Hara listened. O'Hara debated. O'Hara agreed. O'Harafired the dub who wrote criticism. Further, O'Hara had a way withhim--the very way that was feared by Gillet in distant Paris. WhenO'Hara wanted anything, no friend could deny him. He was sweetlyand compellingly irresistible. Before Kit Bellew could escape fromthe office he had become an associate editor, had agreed to writeweekly columns of criticism till some decent pen was found, and hadpledged himself to write a weekly instalment of ten thousand wordson the San Francisco serial--and all this without pay. The Billowwasn't paying yet, O'Hara explained; and just as convincingly had heexposited that there was only one man in San Francisco capable ofwriting the serial, and that man Kit Bellew."Oh, Lord, I'm the gink!" Kit had groaned to himself afterwards onthe narrow stairway.And thereat had begun his servitude to O'Hara and the insatiablecolumns of the Billow. Week after week he held down an officechair, stood off creditors, wrangled with printers, and turned outtwenty-five thousand words of all sorts weekly. Nor did his labourslighten. The Billow was ambitious. It went in for illustration.The processes were expensive. It never had any money to pay KitBellew, and by the same token it was unable to pay for any additionsto 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 hiseyes 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, andthings will be easier.""Never," was Kit's plaint. "I see my fate clearly. I shall be herealways."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 minutesafterwards he bumped into the corner of the desk, and, with fumblingfingers, capsized a paste pot."Out late?" O'Hara queried.Kit brushed his eyes with his hands and peered about him anxiouslybefore replying."No, it's not that. It's my eyes. They seem to be going back onme, that's all."For several days he continued to fall over and bump into the officefurniture. But O'Hara's heart was not softened."I tell you what, Kit," he said one day, "you've got to see anoculist. There's Doctor Hassdapple. He's a crackerjack. And itwon't cost you anything. We can get it for advertizing. I'll seehim myself."And, true to his word, he dispatched Kit to the oculist."There's nothing the matter with your eyes," was the doctor'sverdict, after a lengthy examination. "In fact, your eyes aremagnificent--a pair in a million.""Don't tell O'Hara," Kit pleaded. "And give me a pair of blackglasses."The result of this was that O'Hara sympathized and talked glowinglyof 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 him to belongto several clubs and maintain a studio in the Latin Quarter. Inpoint of fact, since his associate editorship, his expenses haddecreased prodigiously. He had no time to spend money. He neversaw the studio any more, nor entertained the local Bohemians withhis famous chafing-dish suppers. Yet he was always broke, for theBillow, in perennial distress, absorbed his cash as well as hisbrains. There were the illustrators who periodically refused toillustrate, the printers who periodically refused to print, and theoffice boy who frequently refused to officiate. At such timesO'Hara looked at Kit, and Kit did the rest.When the steamship Excelsior arrived from Alaska, bringing the newsof the Klondike strike that set the country mad, Kit made a purelyfrivolous proposition."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 theKlondike to-morrow, and he's agreed to send a weekly letter andphotos. I wouldn't let him get away till he promised. And thebeauty of it is, that it doesn't cost us anything."The next Kit heard of the Klondike was when he dropped into the clubthat afternoon, and, in an alcove off the library, encountered hisuncle."Hello, avuncular relative," Kit greeted, sliding into a leatherchair and spreading out his legs. "Won't you join me?"He ordered a cocktail, but the uncle contented himself with the thinnative claret he invariably drank. He glanced with irritateddisapproval at the cocktail, and on to his nephew's face. Kit saw alecture gathering."I've only a minute," he announced hastily. "I've got to run andtake in that Keith exhibition at Ellery's and do half a column onit.""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 crossedthe plains by ox-team in the fifties, and in him was this samehardness and the hardness of a childhood spent in the conquering ofa 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 theprimrose 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 asyour 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 aweek right now, and doing four men's work.""Pictures that won't sell? Or--er--fancy work of some sort? Canyou 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 ofyour gracelessness," he said. "Your father was a man, every inch ofhim. Do you get it? A Man. I think he'd have whaled all thismusical and artistic tomfoolery out of you.""Alas! these degenerate days," Kit sighed."I could understand it, and tolerate it," the other went onsavagely, "if you succeeded at it. You've never earned a cent inyour life, nor done a tap of man's work.""Etchings, and pictures, and fans," Kit contributed unsoothingly."You're a dabbler and a failure. What pictures have you painted?Dinky water-colours and nightmare posters. You've never had oneexhibited, even here in San Francisco-""Ah, you forget. There is one in the jinks room of this very club.""A gross cartoon. Music? Your dear fool of a mother spent hundredson lessons. You've dabbled and failed. You've never even earned afive-dollar piece by accompanying some one at a concert. Yoursongs?--rag-time rot that's never printed and that's sung only by apack of fake Bohemians.""I had a book published once--those sonnets, you remember," Kitinterposed meekly."What did it cost you?""Only a couple of hundred.""Any other achievements?""I had a forest play acted at the summer jinks.""What did you get for it?""Glory.""And you used to swim, and you have essayed to sit a horse!" JohnBellew set his glass down with unnecessary violence. "What earthlygood are you anyway? You were well put up, yet even at universityyou didn't play football. You didn't row. You didn't-""I boxed and fenced--some.""When did you last box?""Not since; but I was considered an excellent judge of time anddistance, only I was--er-""Go on.""Considered desultory.""Lazy, you mean.""I always imagined it was an euphemism.""My father, sir, your grandfather, old Isaac Bellew, killed a manwith a blow of his fist when he was sixty-nine years old.""The man?""No, your--you graceless scamp! But you'll never kill a mosquito atsixty-nine.""The times have changed, oh, my avuncular. They send men to stateprisons for homicide now.""Your father rode one hundred and eighty-five miles, withoutsleeping, and killed three horses.""Had he lived to-day, he'd have snored over the course in aPullman."The older man was on the verge of choking with wrath, but swallowedit down and managed to articulate:"How old are you?""I have reason to believe-""I know. Twenty-seven. You finished college at twenty-two. You'vedabbled and played and frilled for five years. Before God and man,of what use are you? When I was your age I had one suit ofunderclothes. I was riding with the cattle in Colusa. I was hardas rocks, and I could sleep on a rock. I lived on jerked beef andbear-meat. I am a better man physically right now than you are.You weigh about one hundred and sixty-five. I can throw you rightnow, or thrash you with my fists.""It doesn't take a physical prodigy to mop up cocktails or pinktea," Kit murmured deprecatingly. "Don't you see, my avuncular, thetimes have changed. Besides, I wasn't brought up right. My dearfool of a mother-"John Bellew started angrily."-As you described her, was too good to me; kept me in cotton wooland all the rest. Now, if when I was a youngster I had taken someof those intensely masculine vacations you go in for--I wonder whyyou didn't invite me sometimes? You took Hal and Robbie all overthe Sierras and on that Mexico trip.""I guess you were too Lord Fauntleroyish.""Your fault, avuncular, and my dear--er--mother's. How was I toknow the hard? I was only a chee-ild. What was there left butetchings and pictures and fans? Was it my fault that I never had tosweat?"The older man looked at his nephew with unconcealed disgust. He hadno patience with levity from the lips of softness."Well, I'm going to take another one of those what-you-callmasculine vacations. Suppose I asked you to come along?""Rather belated, I must say. Where is it?""Hal and Robert are going in to Klondike, and I'm going to see themacross the Pass and down to the Lakes, then return-"He got no further, for the young man had sprung forward and grippedhis hand."My preserver!"John Bellew was immediately suspicious. He had not dreamed theinvitation would be accepted."You don't mean it," he said."When do we start?""It will be a hard trip. You'll be in the way.""No, I won't. I'll work. I've learned to work since I went on theBillow.""Each man has to take a year's supplies in with him. There'll besuch a jam the Indian packers won't be able to handle it. Hal andRobert will have to pack their outfits across themselves. That'swhat I'm going along for--to help them pack. It you come you'llhave to do the same.""Watch me.""You can't pack," was the objection."When do we start?""To-morrow.""You needn't take it to yourself that your lecture on the hard hasdone it," Kit said, at parting. "I just had to get away, somewhere,anywhere, from O'Hara.""Who is O'Hara? A Jap?""No; he's an Irishman, and a slave-driver, and my best friend. He'sthe editor and proprietor and all-around big squeeze of the Billow.What he says goes. He can make ghosts walk."That night Kit Bellew wrote a note to O'Hara."It's only a several weeks' vacation," he explained. "You'll haveto get some gink to dope out instalments for that serial. Sorry,old man, but my health demands it. I'll kick in twice as hard whenI get back."II.Kit Bellew landed through the madness of the Dyea beach, congestedwith thousand-pound outfits of thousands of men. This immense massof luggage and food, flung ashore in mountains by the steamers, wasbeginning slowly to dribble up the Dyea valley and across Chilcoot.It was a portage of twenty-eight miles, and could be accomplishedonly on the backs of men. Despite the fact that the Indian packershad jumped the freight from eight cents a pound to forty, they wereswamped with the work, and it was plain that winter would catch themajor portion of the outfits on the wrong side of the divide.Tenderest of the tender-feet was Kit. Like many hundreds of othershe carried a big revolver swung on a cartridge-belt. Of this, hisuncle, filled with memories of old lawless days, was likewiseguilty. But Kit Bellew was romantic. He was fascinated by thefroth and sparkle of the gold rush, and viewed its life and movementwith an artist's eye. He did not take it seriously. As he said onthe steamer, it was not his funeral. He was merely on a vacation,and intended to peep over the top of the pass for a 'look see' andthen to return.Leaving his party on the sand to wait for the putting ashore of thefreight, he strolled up the beach toward the old trading post. Hedid not swagger, though he noticed that many of the be-revolveredindividuals did. A strapping, six-foot Indian passed him, carryingan unusually large pack. Kit swung in behind, admiring the splendidcalves of the man, and the grace and ease with which he moved alongunder his burden. The Indian dropped his pack on the scales infront of the post, and Kit joined the group of admiring gold-rusherswho surrounded him. The pack weighed one hundred and twenty pounds,which fact was uttered back and forth in tones of awe. It was goingsome, Kit decided, and he wondered if he could lift such a weight,much less walk off with it."Going to Lake Linderman with it, old man?" he asked.The Indian, swelling with pride, grunted an affirmative."How much you make that one pack?""Fifty dollar."Here Kit slid out of the conversation. A young woman, standing inthe doorway, had caught his eye. Unlike other women landing fromthe steamers, she was neither short-skirted nor bloomer-clad. Shewas dressed as any woman travelling anywhere would be dressed. Whatstruck him was the justness of her being there, a feeling thatsomehow she belonged. Moreover, she was young and pretty. Thebright beauty and colour of her oval face held him, and he lookedover-long--looked till she resented, and her own eyes, long-lashedand dark, met his in cool survey.From his face they travelled in evident amusement down to the bigrevolver at his thigh. Then her eyes came back to his, and in themwas amused contempt. It struck him like a blow. She turned to theman beside her and indicated Kit. The man glanced him over with thesame amused contempt."Chechaquo," the girl said.The man, who looked like a tramp in his cheap overalls anddilapidated woollen jacket, grinned dryly, and Kit felt witheredthough he knew not why. But anyway she was an unusually prettygirl, he decided, as the two moved off. He noted the way of herwalk, and recorded the judgment that he would recognize it after thelapse of a thousand years."Did you see that man with the girl?" Kit's neighbour asked himexcitedly. "Know who he is?"Kit shook his head."Cariboo Charley. He was just pointed out to me. He struck it bigon Klondike. Old timer. Been on the Yukon a dozen years. He'sjust come out.""What's chechaquo mean?" Kit asked."You're one; I'm one," was the answer."Maybe I am, but you've got to search me. What does it mean?""Tender-foot."On his way back to the beach Kit turned the phrase over and over.It rankled to be called tender-foot by a slender chit of a woman.Going into a corner among the heaps of freight, his mind stillfilled with the vision of the Indian with the redoubtable pack, Kitessayed to learn his own strength. He picked out a sack of flourwhich he knew weighed an even hundred pounds. He stepped astride ofit, reached down, and strove to get it on his shoulder. His firstconclusion was that one hundred pounds was the real heavy. His nextwas that his back was weak. His third was an oath, and it occurredat the end of five futile minutes, when he collapsed on top of theburden with which he was wrestling. He mopped his forehead, andacross a heap of grub-sacks saw John Bellew gazing at him, wintryamusement in his eyes."God!" proclaimed that apostle of the hard. "Out of our loins hascome a race of weaklings. When I was sixteen I toyed with thingslike that.""You forget, avuncular," Kit retorted, "that I wasn't raised onbear-meat.""And I'll toy with it when I'm sixty.""You've got to show me."John Bellew did. He was forty-eight, but he bent over the sack,applied a tentative, shifting grip that balanced it, and, with aquick heave, stood erect, the somersaulted sack of flour on hisshoulder."Knack, my boy, knack--and a spine."Kit took off his hat reverently."You're a wonder, avuncular, a shining wonder. D'ye think I canlearn the knack?"John Bellew shrugged his shoulders."You'll be hitting the back trail before we get started.""Never you fear," Kit groaned. "There's O'Hara, the roaring lion,down there. I'm not going back till I have to."III.Kit's first pack was a success. Up to Finnegan's Crossing they hadmanaged to get Indians to carry the twenty-five hundred-poundoutfit. From that point their own backs must do the work. Theyplanned to move forward at the rate of a mile a day. It lookedeasy--on paper. Since John Bellew was to stay in camp and do thecooking, he would be unable to make more than an occasional pack;so, to each of the three young men fell the task of carrying eighthundred pounds one mile each day. If they made fifty-pound packs,it meant a daily walk of sixteen miles loaded and of fifteen mileslight--"Because we don't back-trip the last time," Kit explained thepleasant discovery; eighty-pound packs meant nineteen miles traveleach day; and hundred-pound packs meant only fifteen miles."I don't like walking," said Kit. "Therefore I shall carry onehundred pounds." He caught the grin of incredulity on his uncle'sface, and added hastily: "Of course I shall work up to it. Afellow's got to learn the ropes and tricks. I'll start with fifty."He did, and ambled gaily along the trail. He dropped the sack atthe next camp-site and ambled back. It was easier than he hadthought. But two miles had rubbed off the velvet of his strengthand exposed the underlying softness. His second pack was sixty-fivepounds. It was more difficult, and he no longer ambled. Severaltimes, following the custom of all packers, he sat down on theground, resting the pack behind him on a rock or stump. With thethird pack he became bold. He fastened the straps to a ninety-five-pound sack of beans and started. At the end of a hundred yards hefelt that he must collapse. He sat down and mopped his face."Short hauls and short rests," he muttered. "That's the trick."Sometimes he did not make a hundred yards, and each time hestruggled to his feet for another short haul the pack becameundeniably heavier. He panted for breath, and the sweat streamedfrom him. Before he had covered a quarter of a mile he stripped offhis woollen shirt and hung it on a tree. A little later hediscarded his hat. At the end of half a mile he decided he wasfinished. He had never exerted himself so in his life, and he knewthat he was finished. As he sat and panted, his gaze fell upon thebig revolver and the heavy cartridge-belt."Ten pounds of junk," he sneered, as he unbuckled it.He did not bother to hang it on a tree, but flung it into theunderbush. And as the steady tide of packers flowed by him, uptrail and down, he noted that the other tender-feet were beginningto shed their shooting irons.His short hauls decreased. At times a hundred feet was all he couldstagger, and then the ominous pounding of his heart against his ear-drums and the sickening totteriness of his knees compelled him torest. And his rests grew longer. But his mind was busy. It was atwenty-eight mile portage, which represented as many days, and this,by all accounts, was the easiest part of it. "Wait till you get toChilcoot," others told him as they rested and talked, "where youclimb with hands and feet.""They ain't going to be no Chilcoot," was his answer. "Not for me.Long before that I'll be at peace in my little couch beneath themoss."A slip, and a violent wrenching effort at recovery, frightened him.He felt that everything inside him had been torn asunder."If ever I fall down with this on my back I'm a goner," he toldanother packer."That's nothing," came the answer. "Wait till you hit the Canyon.You'll have to cross a raging torrent on a sixty-foot pine tree. Noguide ropes, nothing, and the water boiling at the sag of the log toyour knees. If you fall with a pack on your back, there's nogetting out of the straps. You just stay there and drown.""Sounds good to me," he retorted; and out of the depths of hisexhaustion he almost half meant it."They drown three or four a day there," the man assured him. "Ihelped fish a German out there. He had four thousand in greenbackson him.""Cheerful, I must say," said Kit, battling his way to his feet andtottering on.He and the sack of beans became a perambulating tragedy. Itreminded him of the old man of the sea who sat on Sinbad's neck.And this was one of those intensely masculine vacations, hemeditated. Compared with it, the servitude to O'Hara was sweet.Again and again he was nearly seduced by the thought of abandoningthe sack of beans in the brush and of sneaking around the camp tothe beach and catching a steamer for civilization.But he didn't. Somewhere in him was the strain of the hard, and herepeated over and over to himself that what other men could do, hecould. It became a nightmare chant, and he gibbered it to thosethat passed him on the trail. At other times, resting, he watchedand envied the stolid, mule-footed Indians that plodded by underheavier packs. They never seemed to rest, but went on and on with asteadiness and certitude that was to him appalling.He sat and cursed--he had no breath for it when under way--andfought the temptation to sneak back to San Francisco. Before themile pack was ended he ceased cursing and took to crying. The tearswere tears of exhaustion and of disgust with self. If ever a manwas a wreck, he was. As the end of the pack came in sight, hestrained himself in desperation, gained the camp-site, and pitchedforward on his face, the beans on his back. It did not kill him,but he lay for fifteen minutes before he could summon sufficientshreds of strength to release himself from the straps. Then hebecame deathly sick, and was so found by Robbie, who had similartroubles of his own. It was this sickness of Robbie that braced himup."What other men can do, we can do," Kit told him, though down in hisheart he wondered whether or not he was bluffing.IV."And I am twenty-seven years old and a man," he privately assuredhimself many times in the days that followed. There was need forit. At the end of a week, though he had succeeded in moving hiseight hundred pounds forward a mile a day, he had lost fifteenpounds of his own weight. His face was lean and haggard. Allresilience had gone out of his body and mind. He no longer walked,but plodded. And on the back-trips, travelling light, his feetdragged almost as much as when he was loaded.He had become a work animal. He fell asleep over his food, and hissleep was heavy and beastly, save when he was aroused, screamingwith agony, by the cramps in his legs. Every part of him ached. Hetramped on raw blisters, yet this was even easier than the fearfulbruising his feet received on the water-rounded rocks of the DyeaFlats, across which the trail led for two miles. These two milesrepresented thirty-eight miles of travelling. He washed his faceonce a day. His nails, torn and broken and afflicted withhangnails, were never cleaned. His shoulders and chest, galled bythe pack-straps, made him think, and for the first time withunderstanding, of the horses he had seen on city streets.One ordeal that nearly destroyed him at first had been the food.The extraordinary amount of work demanded extraordinary stoking, andhis stomach was unaccustomed to great quantities of bacon and of thecoarse, highly poisonous brown beans. As a result, his stomach wentback on him, and for several days the pain and irritation of it andof starvation nearly broke him down. And then came the day of joywhen he could eat like a ravenous animal, and, wolf-eyed, ask formore.When they had moved the outfit across the foot-logs at the mouth ofthe Canyon, they made a change in their plans. Word had come acrossthe Pass that at Lake Linderman the last available trees forbuilding boats were being cut. The two cousins, with tools,whipsaw, blankets, and grub on their backs, went on, leaving Kit andhis uncle to hustle along the outfit. John Bellew now shared thecooking with Kit, and both packed shoulder to shoulder. Time wasflying, and on the peaks the first snow was falling. To be caughton the wrong side of the Pass meant a delay of nearly a year. Theolder man put his iron back under a hundred pounds. Kit wasshocked, but he gritted his teeth and fastened his own straps to ahundred pounds. It hurt, but he had learned the knack, and hisbody, purged of all softness and fat, was beginning to harden upwith lean and bitter muscle. Also, he observed and devised. Hetook note of the head-straps worn by the Indians, and manufacturedone for himself, which he used in addition to the shoulder-straps.It made things easier, so that he began the practice of piling anylight, cumbersome piece of luggage on top. Thus, he was soon ableto bend along with a hundred pounds in the straps, fifteen or twentymore lying loosely on top the pack and against his neck, an axe or apair of oars in one hand, and in the other the nested cooking-pailsof the camp.But work as they would, the toil increased. The trail grew morerugged; their packs grew heavier; and each day saw the snow-linedropping down the mountains, while freight jumped to sixty cents.No word came from the cousins beyond, so they knew they must be atwork chopping down the standing trees, and whipsawing them intoboat-planks. John Bellew grew anxious. Capturing a bunch ofIndians back-tripping from Lake Linderman, he persuaded them to puttheir straps on the outfit. They charged thirty cents a pound tocarry it to the summit of Chilcoot, and it nearly broke him. As itwas, some four hundred pounds of clothes-bags and camp outfit wasnot handled. He remained behind to move it along, dispatching Kitwith the Indians. At the summit Kit was to remain, slowly movinghis ton until overtaken by the four hundred pounds with which hisuncle guaranteed to catch him.V.Kit plodded along the trail with his Indian packers. In recognitionof the fact that it was to be a long pack, straight to the top ofChilcoot, his own load was only eighty pounds. The Indians ploddedunder their loads, but it was a quicker gait than he had practised.Yet he felt no apprehension, and by now had come to deem himselfalmost the equal of an Indian.At the end of a quarter of a mile he desired to rest. But theIndians kept on. He stayed with them, and kept his place in theline. At the half mile he was convinced that he was incapable ofanother step, yet he gritted his teeth, kept his place, and at theend of the mile was amazed that he was still alive. Then, in somestrange way, came the thing called second wind, and the next milewas almost easier than the first. The third mile nearly killed him,and, though half delirious with pain and fatigue, he neverwhimpered. And then, when he felt he must surely faint, came therest. Instead of sitting in the straps, as was the custom of thewhite packers, the Indians slipped out of the shoulder- and head-straps and lay at ease, talking and smoking. A full half hourpassed before they made another start. To Kit's surprise he foundhimself a fresh man, and 'long hauls and long rests' became hisnewest motto.The pitch of Chilcoot was all he had heard of it, and many were theoccasions when he climbed with hands as well as feet. But when hereached the crest of the divide in the thick of a driving snow-squall, it was in the company of his Indians, and his secret pridewas that he had come through with them and never squealed and neverlagged. To be almost as good as an Indian was a new ambition tocherish.When he had paid off the Indians and seen them depart, a stormydarkness was falling, and he was left alone, a thousand feet abovetimber line, on the back-bone of a mountain. Wet to the waist,famished and exhausted, he would have given a year's income for afire and a cup of coffee. Instead, he ate half a dozen cold flap-jacks and crawled into the folds of the partly unrolled tent. As hedozed off he had time only for one fleeting thought, and he grinnedwith vicious pleasure at the picture of John Bellew in the days tofollow, masculinely back-tripping his four hundred pounds upChilcoot. As for himself, even though burdened with two thousandpounds, he was bound down the hill.In the morning, stiff from his labours and numb with the frost, herolled out of the canvas, ate a couple of pounds of uncooked bacon,buckled the straps on a hundred pounds, and went down the rocky way.Several hundred yards beneath, the trail led across a small glacierand down to Crater Lake. Other men packed across the glacier. Allthat day he dropped his packs at the glacier's upper edge, and, byvirtue of the shortness of the pack, he put his straps on onehundred and fifty pounds each load. His astonishment at being ableto do it never abated. For two dollars he bought from an Indianthree leathery sea-biscuits, and out of these, and a huge quantityof raw bacon, made several meals. Unwashed, unwarmed, his clothingwet with sweat, he slept another night in the canvas.In the early morning he spread a tarpaulin on the ice, loaded itwith three-quarters of a ton, and started to pull. Where the pitchof the glacier accelerated, his load likewise accelerated, overranhim, scooped him in on top, and ran away with him.A hundred packers, bending under their loads, stopped to watch him.He yelled frantic warnings, and those in his path stumbled andstaggered clear. Below, on the lower edge of the glacier, waspitched a small tent, which seemed leaping toward him, so rapidlydid it grow larger. He left the beaten track where the packers'trail swerved to the left, and struck a patch of fresh snow. Thisarose about him in frosty smoke, while it reduced his speed. He sawthe tent the instant he struck it, carrying away the corner guys,bursting in the front flaps, and fetching up inside, still on top ofthe tarpaulin and in the midst of his grub-sacks. The tent rockeddrunkenly, and in the frosty vapour he found himself face to facewith a startled young woman who was sitting up in her blankets--thevery one who had called him chechaquo at Dyea."Did you see my smoke?" he queried cheerfully.She regarded him with disapproval."Talk about your magic carpets!" he went on."Do you mind removing that sack from my foot?" she said coldly.He looked, and lifted his weight quickly."It wasn't a sack. It was my elbow. Pardon me."The information did not perturb her, and her coolness was achallenge."It was a mercy you did not overturn the stove," she said.He followed her glance and saw a sheet-iron stove and a coffee-pot,attended by a young squaw. He sniffed the coffee and looked back tothe girl."I'm a chechaquo," he said.Her bored expression told him that he was stating the obvious. Buthe was unabashed."I've shed my shooting-irons," he added.Then she recognized him, and her eyes lighted."I never thought you'd get this far," she informed him.Again, and greedily, he sniffed the air."As I live, coffee!" He turned and directly addressed her. "I'llgive you my little finger--cut it right off now; I'll do anything;I'll be your slave for a year and a day or any other odd time, ifyou'll give me a cup out of that pot."And over the coffee he gave his name and learned hers--Joy Gastell.Also, he learned that she was an old-timer in the country. She hadbeen born in a trading post on the Great Slave, and as a child hadcrossed the Rockies with her father and come down to the Yukon. Shewas going in, she said, with her father, who had been delayed bybusiness in Seattle, and who had then been wrecked on the ill-fatedChanter and carried back to Puget Sound by the rescuing steamer.In view of the fact that she was still in her blankets, he did notmake it a long conversation, and, heroically declining a second cupof coffee, he removed himself and his quarter of a ton of baggagefrom her tent. Further, he took several conclusions away with him:she had a fetching name and fetching eyes; could not be more thantwenty, or twenty-one or -two; her father must be French; she had awill of her own and temperament to burn; and she had been educatedelsewhere than on the frontier.VI.Over the ice-scoured rocks, and above the timber-line, the trail ranaround Crater Lake and gained the rocky defile that led toward HappyCamp and the first scrub pines. To pack his heavy outfit aroundwould take days of heart-breaking toil. On the lake was a canvasboat employed in freighting. Two trips with it, in two hours, wouldsee him and his ton across. But he was broke, and the ferrymancharged forty dollars a ton."You've got a gold-mine, my friend, in that dinky boat," Kit said tothe ferryman. "Do you want another gold-mine?""Show me," was the answer."I'll sell it to you for the price of ferrying my outfit. It's anidea, not patented, and you can jump the deal as soon as I tell youit. Are you game?"The ferryman said he was, and Kit liked his looks."Very well. You see that glacier. Take a pick-axe and wade intoit. In a day you can have a decent groove from top to bottom. Seethe point? The Chilcoot and Crater Lake Consolidated ChuteCorporation, Limited. You can charge fifty cents a hundred, get ahundred tons a day, and have no work to do but collect the coin."Two hours later, Kit's ton was across the lake, and he had gainedthree days on himself. And when John Bellew overtook him, he waswell along toward Deep Lake, another volcanic pit filled withglacial water.VII.The last pack, from Long Lake to Linderman, was three miles, and thetrail, if trail it could be called, rose up over a thousand-foothogback, dropped down a scramble of slippery rocks, and crossed awide stretch of swamp. John Bellew remonstrated when he saw Kitarise with a hundred pounds in the straps and pick up a fifty-poundsack of flour and place it on top of the pack against the back ofhis neck."Come on, you chunk of the hard," Kit retorted. "Kick in on yourbear-meat fodder and your one suit of underclothes."But John Bellew shook his head."I'm afraid I'm getting old, Christopher.""You're only forty-eight. Do you realize that my grandfather, sir,your father, old Isaac Bellew, killed a man with his fist when hewas sixty-nine years old?"John Bellew grinned and swallowed his medicine."Avuncular, I want to tell you something important. I was raised aLord Fauntleroy, but I can outpack you, outwalk you, put you on yourback, or lick you with my fists right now."John Bellew thrust out his hand and spoke solemnly."Christopher, my boy, I believe you can do it. I believe you can doit with that pack on your back at the same time. You've made good,boy, though it's too unthinkable to believe."Kit made the round trip of the last pack four times a day, which isto say that he daily covered twenty-four miles of mountain climbing,twelve miles of it under one hundred and fifty pounds. He wasproud, hard, and tired, but in splendid physical condition. He ateand slept as he had never eaten and slept in his life, and as theend of the work came in sight, he was almost half sorry.One problem bothered him. He had learned that he could fall with ahundredweight on his back and survive; but he was confident, if hefell with that additional fifty pounds across the back of his neck,that it would break it clean. Each trail through the swamp wasquickly churned bottomless by the thousands of packers, who werecompelled continually to make new trails. It was while pioneeringsuch a new trail, that he solved the problem of the extra fifty.The soft, lush surface gave way under him; he floundered, andpitched forward on his face. The fifty pounds crushed his face inthe mud and went clear without snapping his neck. With theremaining hundred pounds on his back, he arose on hands and knees.But he got no farther. One arm sank to the shoulder, pillowing hischeek in the slush. As he drew this arm clear, the other sank tothe shoulder. In this position it was impossible to slip thestraps, and the hundredweight on his back would not let him rise.On hands and knees, sinking first one arm and then the other, hemade an effort to crawl to where the small sack of flour had fallen.But he exhausted himself without advancing, and so churned and brokethe grass surface, that a tiny pool of water began to form inperilous proximity to his mouth and nose.He tried to throw himself on his back with the pack underneath, butthis resulted in sinking both arms to the shoulders and gave him aforetaste of drowning. With exquisite patience, he slowly withdrewone sucking arm and then the other and rested them flat on thesurface for the support of his chin. Then he began to call forhelp. After a time he heard the sound of feet sucking through themud as some one advanced from behind."Lend a hand, friend," he said. "Throw out a life-line orsomething."It was a woman's voice that answered, and he recognized it."If you'll unbuckle the straps I can get up."The hundred pounds rolled into the mud with a soggy noise, and heslowly gained his feet."A pretty predicament," Miss Gastell laughed, at sight of his mud-covered face."Not at all," he replied airily. "My favourite physical exercisestunt. Try it some time. It's great for the pectoral muscles andthe spine."He wiped his face, flinging the slush from his hand with a snappyjerk."Oh!" she cried in recognition. "It's Mr--ah--Mr Smoke Bellew.""I thank you gravely for your timely rescue and for that name," heanswered. "I have been doubly baptized. Henceforth I shall insistalways on being called Smoke Bellew. It is a strong name, and notwithout significance."He paused, and then voice and expression became suddenly fierce."Do you know what I'm going to do?" he demanded. "I'm going back tothe States. I am going to get married. I am going to raise a largefamily of children. And then, as the evening shadows fall, I shallgather those children about me and relate the sufferings andhardships I endured on the Chilcoot Trail. And if they don't cry--Irepeat, if they don't cry, I'll lambaste the stuffing out of them."VIII.The arctic winter came down apace. Snow that had come to stay laysix inches on the ground, and the ice was forming in quiet ponds,despite the fierce gales that blew. It was in the late afternoon,during a lull in such a gale, that Kit and John Bellew helped thecousins load the boat and watched it disappear down the lake in asnow-squall."And now a night's sleep and an early start in the morning," saidJohn Bellew. "If we aren't storm-bound at the summit we'll makeDyea to-morrow night, and if we have luck in catching a steamerwe'll be in San Francisco in a week.""Enjoyed your vacation?" Kit asked absently.Their camp for that last night at Linderman was a melancholyremnant. Everything of use, including the tent, had been taken bythe cousins. A tattered tarpaulin, stretched as a wind-break,partially sheltered them from the driving snow. Supper they cookedon an open fire in a couple of battered and discarded camp utensils.All that was left them were their blankets, and food for severalmeals.From the moment of the departure of the boat, Kit had become absentand restless. His uncle noticed his condition, and attributed it tothe fact that the end of the hard toil had come. Only once duringsupper did Kit speak."Avuncular," he said, relevant of nothing, "after this, I wish you'dcall 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 villageof tents that sheltered the gold-rushers who were still packing orbuilding their boats. He was gone several hours, and when hereturned and slipped into his blankets John Bellew was asleep.In the darkness of a gale-driven morning, Kit crawled out, built afire in his stocking feet, by which he thawed out his frozen shoes,then boiled coffee and fried bacon. It was a chilly, miserablemeal. As soon as finished, they strapped their blankets. As JohnBellew turned to lead the way toward the Chilcoot Trail, Kit heldout 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 at a hundred and fifty per month and grub. He'sgoing down to Dawson with a couple of dudes and another gentleman'sman--camp-cook, boatman, and general all-around hustler. And O'Haraand the Billow can go to hell. 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," Kitexplained. "Well, I've got only one suit of underclothes, and I'mgoing after the bear-meat, that's all."

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