“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 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.