your eyes," was the doctor's verdict,
after a lengthy examination. "In fact, your eyes are magnificent--a pair
in a million."

"Don't tell O'Hara," Kit pleaded. "And give me a pair of black glasses."

The result of this was that O'Hara sympathized and talked glowingly of
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 belong to several
clubs and maintain a studio in the Latin Quarter. In point of fact,
since his associate-editorship, his expenses had decreased prodigiously.
He had no time to spend money. He never saw the studio any more, nor
entertained the local Bohemians with his famous chafing-dish suppers.
Yet he was always broke, for The Billow, in perennial distress, absorbed
his cash as well as his brains. There were the illustrators, who
periodically refused to illustrate, the printers, who periodically
refused to print, and the office-boy, who frequently refused to
officiate. At such times O'Hara looked at Kit, and Kit did the rest.

When the steamship Excelsior arrived from Alaska, bringing the news
of the Klondike strike that set the country mad, Kit made a purely
frivolous 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 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