The arctic winter came down apace.  Snow that had come to stay lay six 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 the cousins load the boat and watched it disappear down the lake in a snow-squall.

“And now a night’s sleep and an early start in the morning,” said John Bellew.  “If we aren’t storm-bound at the summit we’ll make Dyea to-morrow night, and if we have luck in catching a steamer we’ll be in San Francisco in a week.”

“Enjoyed your vacation?” Kit asked absently.

Their camp for that last night at Linderman was a melancholy remnant.  Everything of use, including the tent, had been taken by the cousins.  A tattered tarpaulin, stretched as a wind-break, partially sheltered them from the driving snow.  Supper they cooked on an open fire in a couple of battered and discarded camp utensils.  All that was left them were their blankets, and food for several meals.

From the moment of the departure of the boat, Kit had become absent and restless.  His uncle noticed his condition, and attributed it to the fact that the end of the hard toil had come.  Only once during supper did Kit speak.

“Avuncular,” he said, relevant of nothing, “after this, I wish you’d call 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 village of tents that sheltered the gold-rushers who were still packing or building their boats.  He was gone several hours, and when he returned and slipped into his blankets John Bellew was asleep.

In the darkness of a gale-driven morning, Kit crawled out, built a fire in his stocking feet, by which he thawed out his frozen shoes, then boiled coffee and fried bacon.  It was a chilly, miserable meal.  As soon as it was finished, they strapped their blankets.  As John Bellew turned to lead the way toward the Chilcoot Trail, Kit held out 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!  He’s a gentleman’s man!  He’s got a job at a hundred and fifty per month and grub.  He’s going down to Dawson with a couple of dudes and another gentleman’s man—­camp-cook, boatman, and general all-around hustler.  And O’Hara and The Billow can go to the devil.  Good-bye.”