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 afterward 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. 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