Produced by Les Bowler
Smoke Bellew
Contents
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 was knownby no other name than Smoke Bellew. And this history of the evolutionof his name is the history of his evolution. Nor would it havehappened had he not had a fond mother and an iron uncle, and had he notreceived a letter from Gillet Bellamy.
"I have just seen a copy of the Billow," Gillet wrote from Paris. "Ofcourse O'Hara will succeed with it. But he's missing some plays."(Here followed details in the improvement of the budding societyweekly.) "Go down and see him. Let him think they're your ownsuggestions. Don't let him know they're from me. If he does, he'llmake me Paris correspondent, which I can't afford, because I'm gettingreal money for my stuff from the big magazines. Above all, don'tforget to make him fire that dub who's doing the musical and artcriticism. Another thing, San Francisco has always had a literature ofher own. But she hasn't any now. Tell him to kick around and get somegink to turn out a live serial, and to put into it the real romance andglamour 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 sweetly andcompellingly irresistible. Before Kit Bellew could escape from theoffice he had become an associate editor, had agreed to write weeklycolumns of criticism till some decent pen was found, and had pledgedhimself to write a weekly instalment of ten thousand words on the SanFrancisco serial—and all this without pay. The Billow wasn't payingyet, O'Hara explained; and just as convincingly had he exposited thatthere 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 afterwards on thenarrow stairway.
And thereat had begun his servitude to O'Hara and the insatiablecolumns of the Billow. Week after week he held down an office chair,stood off creditors, wrangled with printers, and turned out twenty-fivethousand words of all sorts weekly. Nor did his labours lighten. TheBillow was ambitious. It went in for illustration. The processes wereexpensive. It never had any money to pay Kit Bellew, and by the sametoken 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 eyesas he gripped Kit's hand. "You're all that's saved me, Kit. But foryou I'd have gone bust. Just a little longer, old man, and things willbe 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, inO'Hara's presence, he fell over a chair. A few minutes afterwards hebumped into the corner of the desk, and, with fumbling fingers,capsized a paste pot.
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