Smoke Bellew E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Smoke Bellew

In the beginning he was Christopher Bellew. By the time he was at college he had become Chris Bellew. Later, in the Bohemian crowd of San Francisco, he was called Kit Bellew. And in the end he was known by no other name than Smoke Bellew. And this history of the evolution of his name is the history of his evolution. Nor would it have happened had he not had a fond mother and an iron uncle, and had he not received a letter from Gillet Bellamy.

"I have just seen a copy of the Billow," Gillet wrote from Paris. "Of course O'Hara will succeed with it. But he's missing some plays."

Leseprobe

SmokeBellew

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

SMOKEBELLEW

THETASTEOFTHEMEAT.I.

In the beginning he was Christopher Bellew. By the time he was at college hehad become Chris Bellew. Later, in the Bohemian crowd of San Francisco, hewas called Kit Bellew. And in the end he was known by no other name thanSmoke Bellew. And this history of the evolution of his name is the history ofhis evolution. Nor would it have happened had he not had a fond mother andanironuncle,andhadhenotreceivedaletterfromGilletBellamy.

"I have just seen a copy of the Billow," Gillet wrote from Paris. "Of courseO'Hara will succeed with it. But he's missing some plays." (Here followeddetails in the improvement of the budding society weekly.) "Go down and seehim. Let him think they're your own suggestions. Don't let him know they'refrom me. If he does, he'll make me Paris correspondent, which I can't afford,becauseI'mgettingrealmoneyformystufffromthebigmagazines.Above

all, don't forget to make him fire that dub who's doing the musical and artcriticism. Another thing, San Francisco has always had a literature of her own.But she hasn't any now. Tell him to kick around and get some gink to turn outa live serial, and to put into it the real romance and glamour and colour of SanFrancisco."

And down to the office of the Billow went Kit Bellew faithfully to instruct.O'Hara listened. O'Hara debated. O'Hara agreed. O'Hara fired the dub whowrote criticism. Further, O'Hara had a way with him—the very way that wasfeared by Gillet in distant Paris. When O'Hara wanted anything, no friendcould deny him. He was sweetly and compellingly irresistible. Before KitBellew could escape from the office he had become an associate editor, hadagreed to write weekly columns of criticism till some decent pen was found,and had pledged himself to write a weekly instalment of ten thousand wordson the San Francisco serial—and all this without pay. The Billow wasn'tpaying yet, O'Hara explained; and just as convincingly had he exposited thattherewasonlyonemaninSanFranciscocapableofwritingtheserial,andthatmanKitBellew.

"Oh, Lord, I'm the gink!" Kit had groaned to himself afterwards on the narrowstairway.

And thereat had begun his servitude to O'Hara and the insatiable columns ofthe 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 sortsweekly. Nor did his labours lighten. The Billow was ambitious. It went in forillustration. The processes were expensive. It never had any money to pay KitBellew, and by the same token it was unable to pay for any additions to theofficestaff.

"Thisiswhatcomesofbeingagoodfellow,"Kitgrumbledoneday.

"Thank God for good fellows then," O'Hara cried, with tears in his eyes as hegripped Kit's hand. "You're all that's saved me, Kit. But for you I'd have gonebust.Justalittlelonger,oldman,andthingswillbeeasier."

"Never,"wasKit'splaint."Iseemyfateclearly.Ishallbeherealways."

A little later he thought he saw his way out. Watching his chance, in O'Hara'spresence, he fell over a chair. A few minutes afterwards he bumped into thecornerofthedesk,and,withfumblingfingers,capsizedapastepot.

"Outlate?"O'Haraqueried.

Kit brushed his eyes with his hands and peered about him anxiously beforereplying.

"No, it's not that. It's my eyes. They seem to be going back on me, that's all."Forseveraldayshecontinuedtofalloverandbumpintotheofficefurniture.

ButO'Hara'sheartwasnotsoftened.

"I tell you what, Kit," he said one day, "you've got to see an oculist. There'sDoctor Hassdapple. He's a crackerjack. And it won't cost you anything. Wecangetitforadvertizing.I'llseehimmyself."

And,truetohisword,hedispatchedKittotheoculist.

"There's nothing the matter with your eyes," was the doctor's verdict, after alengthyexamination."Infact,youreyesaremagnificent—apairinamillion."

"Don'ttellO'Hara,"Kitpleaded."Andgivemeapairofblackglasses."

The result of this was that O'Hara sympathized and talked glowingly of thetimewhentheBillowwouldbeonitsfeet.

Luckily for Kit Bellew, he had his own income. Small it was, compared withsome, yet it was large enough to enable him to belong to several clubs andmaintain a studio in the Latin Quarter. In point of fact, since his associateeditorship, his expenses had decreased prodigiously. He had no time to spendmoney.Heneversawthestudioanymore,norentertainedthelocalBohemians 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 printerswho periodically refused to print, and the office boy who frequently refused toofficiate.AtsuchtimesO'HaralookedatKit,andKitdidtherest.

When the steamship Excelsior arrived from Alaska, bringing the news of theKlondikestrikethatsetthecountrymad,Kitmadeapurelyfrivolousproposition.

"Look here, O'Hara," he said. "This gold rush is going to be big—the days of'49overagain.SupposeIcoveritfortheBillow?I'llpaymyownexpenses."

O'Harashookhishead.

"Can't spare you from the office, Kit. Then there's that serial. Besides, I sawJackson not an hour ago. He's starting for the Klondike to-morrow, and he'sagreed to send a weekly letter and photos. I wouldn't let him get away till hepromised.Andthebeautyofitis,thatitdoesn'tcostusanything."

The next Kit heard of the Klondike was when he dropped into the club thatafternoon,and,inanalcoveoffthelibrary,encounteredhisuncle.

"Hello,avuncularrelative,"Kitgreeted,slidingintoaleatherchairandspreadingouthislegs."Won'tyoujoinme?"

He ordered a cocktail, but the uncle contented himself with the thin nativeclaretheinvariablydrank.Heglancedwithirritateddisapprovalatthecocktail,andontohisnephew'sface.Kitsawalecturegathering.

"I'veonlyaminute,"heannouncedhastily."I'vegottorunandtakeinthat

KeithexhibitionatEllery'sanddohalfacolumnonit."

"What'sthematterwithyou?"theotherdemanded."You'repale.You'reawreck."

Kit'sonlyanswerwasagroan.

"I'llhavethepleasureofburyingyou,Icanseethat."Kitshookhisheadsadly.

"Nodestroyingworm,thankyou.Cremationformine."

John Bellew came of the old hard and hardy stock that had crossed the plainsby ox-team in the fifties, and in him was this same hardness and the hardnessofachildhoodspentintheconqueringofanewland.

"You'renotlivingright,Christopher.I'mashamedofyou.""Primrosepath,eh?"Kitchuckled.

Theoldermanshruggedhisshoulders.

"Shake not yourgory locks atme, avuncular.I wish itwere the primrosepath.Butthat'sallcutout.Ihavenotime."

"Thenwhatin-?""Overwork."

JohnBellewlaughedharshlyandincredulously."Honest?"

Againcamethelaughter.

"Menaretheproductsoftheirenvironment,"Kitproclaimed,pointingattheother'sglass."Yourmirthisthinandbitterasyourdrink."

"Overwork!"wasthesneer."Youneverearnedacentinyourlife."

"YoubetIhave—onlyInevergotit.I'mearningfivehundredaweekrightnow,anddoingfourmen'swork."

"Picturesthatwon'tsell?Or—er—fancyworkofsomesort?Canyouswim?""Iusedto."

"Sitahorse?"

"I have essayed that adventure."JohnBellewsnortedhisdisgust.

"I'mgladyourfatherdidn'tlivetoseeyouinallthegloryofyourgracelessness,"hesaid."Yourfatherwasaman,everyinchofhim.Doyougetit? A Man. I think he'd have whaled all this musical and artistic tomfoolery outofyou."

"Alas!thesedegeneratedays,"Kitsighed.

"I could understand it, and tolerate it," the other went on savagely, "if yousucceeded at it. You've never earned a cent in your life, nor done a tap ofman'swork."

"Etchings,andpictures,andfans,"Kitcontributedunsoothingly.

"You'readabblerandafailure.Whatpictureshaveyoupainted?Dinkywater-colours and nightmare posters. You've never had one exhibited, even here inSanFrancisco-"

"Ah,youforget.Thereisoneinthejinksroomofthisveryclub."

"A gross cartoon. Music? Your dear fool of a mother spent hundreds onlessons. You've dabbled and failed. You've never even earned a five-dollarpiece by accompanying some one at a concert. Your songs?—rag-time rotthat'sneverprintedandthat'ssungonlybyapackoffakeBohemians."

"I had a book published once—those sonnets, you remember," Kit interposedmeekly.

"What did it cost you?""Onlyacoupleofhundred.""Anyotherachievements?"

"Ihadaforestplayactedatthesummerjinks.""Whatdidyougetforit?"

"Glory."

"And you used to swim, and you have essayed to sit a horse!" John Bellew sethisglassdownwithunnecessaryviolence."Whatearthlygoodareyouanyway? You were well put up, yet even at university you didn't play football.Youdidn'trow.Youdidn't-"

"Iboxedandfenced—some.""Whendidyoulastbox?"

"Notsince;butIwasconsideredanexcellentjudgeoftimeanddistance,onlyIwas—er-"

"Goon."

"Considered desultory.""Lazy,youmean."

"Ialwaysimagineditwasaneuphemism."

"Myfather,sir,yourgrandfather,oldIsaacBellew,killedamanwithablowofhisfistwhenhewassixty-nineyearsold."

"Theman?"

"No,your—yougracelessscamp!Butyou'llneverkillamosquitoatsixty-nine."

"Thetimeshavechanged,oh,myavuncular.Theysendmentostateprisonsforhomicidenow."

"Yourfatherrodeonehundredandeighty-fivemiles,withoutsleeping,andkilledthreehorses."

"Hadhelivedto-day,he'dhavesnoredoverthecourseinaPullman."

Theoldermanwasonthevergeofchokingwithwrath,butswalloweditdownandmanagedtoarticulate:

"Howoldareyou?"

"Ihavereasontobelieve-"

"I know. Twenty-seven. You finished college at twenty-two. You've dabbledand played and frilled for five years. Before God and man, of what use areyou?WhenIwasyourageIhadonesuitofunderclothes.Iwasridingwiththecattle in Colusa. I was hard as rocks, and I could sleep on a rock. I lived onjerked beef and bear-meat. I am a better man physically right now than youare. You weigh about one hundred and sixty-five. I can throw you right now,orthrashyouwithmyfists."

"It doesn't take a physical prodigy to mop up cocktails or pink tea," Kitmurmureddeprecatingly."Don'tyousee,myavuncular,thetimeshavechanged.Besides,Iwasn'tbroughtupright.Mydearfoolofamother-"

JohnBellewstartedangrily.

"-As you described her, was too good to me; kept me in cotton wool and allthe rest. Now, if when I was a youngster I had taken some of those intenselymasculinevacationsyougoinfor—Iwonderwhyyoudidn'tinvitemesometimes? You took Hal and Robbie all over the Sierras and on that Mexicotrip."

"IguessyouweretooLordFauntleroyish."

"Your fault, avuncular, and my dear—er—mother's. How was I to know thehard? I was only a chee-ild. What was there left but etchings and pictures andfans?WasitmyfaultthatIneverhadtosweat?"

The older man looked at his nephew with unconcealed disgust. He had nopatiencewithlevityfromthelipsofsoftness.

"Well,I'mgoingtotakeanotheroneofthosewhat-you-callmasculinevacations.SupposeIaskedyoutocomealong?"

"Ratherbelated,Imustsay.Whereisit?"

"HalandRobertaregoingintoKlondike,andI'mgoingtoseethemacrossthePassanddowntotheLakes,thenreturn-"

Hegotnofurther,fortheyoungmanhadsprungforwardandgrippedhishand.

"Mypreserver!"

JohnBellewwasimmediatelysuspicious.Hehadnotdreamedtheinvitationwouldbeaccepted.

"Youdon'tmeanit,"hesaid."Whendowestart?"

"Itwillbeahardtrip.You'llbeintheway."

"No,Iwon't.I'llwork.I'velearnedtoworksinceIwentontheBillow."

"Each man has to take a year's supplies in with him. There'll be such a jam theIndian packers won't be able to handle it. Hal and Robert will have to packtheir outfits across themselves. That's what I'm going along for—to help thempack.Ityoucomeyou'llhavetodothesame."

"Watchme."

"Youcan'tpack,"wastheobjection."Whendowestart?"

"To-morrow."

"Youneedn'ttakeittoyourselfthatyourlectureonthehardhasdoneit,"Kitsaid,atparting."Ijusthadtogetaway,somewhere,anywhere,fromO'Hara."

"WhoisO'Hara?AJap?"

"No; he's an Irishman, and a slave-driver, and my best friend. He's the editorand proprietor and all-around big squeeze of the Billow. What he says goes.Hecanmakeghostswalk."

ThatnightKitBellewwroteanotetoO'Hara.

"It's only a several weeks' vacation," he explained. "You'll have to get somegink to dope out instalments for that serial. Sorry, old man, but my healthdemandsit.I'llkickintwiceashardwhenIgetback."

II.

Kit Bellew landed through the madness of the Dyea beach, congested withthousand-poundoutfitsofthousandsofmen.Thisimmensemassofluggage

and food, flung ashore in mountains by the steamers, was beginning slowly todribble up the Dyea valley and across Chilcoot. It was a portage of twenty-eight miles, and could be accomplished only on the backs of men. Despite thefact that the Indian packers had jumped the freight from eight cents a pound toforty, they were swamped with the work, and it was plain that winter wouldcatchthemajorportionoftheoutfitsonthewrongsideofthedivide.

Tenderest of the tender-feet was Kit. Like many hundreds of others he carriedabigrevolverswungonacartridge-belt.Ofthis,hisuncle,filledwithmemoriesofoldlawlessdays,waslikewiseguilty.ButKitBellewwasromantic. He was fascinated by the froth and sparkle of the gold rush, andviewed its life and movement with an artist's eye. He did not take it seriously.Ashesaidonthesteamer,itwasnothisfuneral.Hewasmerelyonavacation,andintendedtopeepoverthetopofthepassfora'looksee'andthentoreturn.

Leaving his party on the sand to wait for the putting ashore of the freight, hestrolled up the beach toward the old trading post. He did not swagger, thoughhe noticed that many of the be-revolvered individuals did. A strapping, six-footIndianpassedhim,carryinganunusuallylargepack.Kitswunginbehind,admiring the splendid calves of the man, and the grace and ease with which hemoved along under his burden. The Indian dropped his pack on the scales infront of the post, and Kit joined the group of admiring gold-rushers whosurrounded him. The pack weighed one hundred and twenty pounds, whichfact was uttered back and forth in tones of awe. It was going some, Kitdecided, and he wondered if he could lift such a weight, much less walk offwithit.

"GoingtoLakeLindermanwithit,oldman?"heasked.TheIndian,swellingwithpride,gruntedanaffirmative."Howmuchyoumakethatonepack?"

"Fiftydollar."

HereKitslidoutoftheconversation.A youngwoman,standinginthedoorway, had caught his eye. Unlike other women landing from the steamers,shewasneithershort-skirtednorbloomer-clad.Shewasdressedasanywomantravellinganywherewouldbedressed.Whatstruckhimwasthejustness of her being there, a feeling that somehow she belonged. Moreover,she was young and pretty. The bright beauty and colour of her oval face heldhim, and he looked over-long—looked till she resented, and her own eyes,long-lashedanddark,methisincoolsurvey.

From his face they travelled in evident amusement down to the big revolver athis thigh. Then her eyes came back to his, and in them was amused contempt.It struck him like a blow. She turned to the man beside her and indicated Kit.Themanglancedhimoverwiththesameamusedcontempt.

"Chechaquo,"thegirlsaid.

The man, who looked like a tramp in his cheap overalls and dilapidatedwoollen jacket, grinned dryly, and Kit felt withered though he knew not why.But anyway she was an unusually pretty girl, he decided, as the two movedoff. He noted the way of her walk, and recorded the judgment that he wouldrecognizeitafterthelapseofathousandyears.

"Did you see that man with the girl?" Kit's neighbour asked him excitedly."Knowwhoheis?"

Kitshookhishead.

"CaribooCharley.Hewasjustpointedouttome.HestruckitbigonKlondike.Oldtimer.BeenontheYukonadozenyears.He'sjustcomeout."

"What's chechaquo mean?" Kit asked."You'reone;I'mone,"wastheanswer.

"MaybeIam,butyou'vegottosearchme.Whatdoesitmean?""Tender-foot."

OnhiswaybacktothebeachKitturnedthephraseoverandover.Itrankledtobecalledtender-footbyaslenderchitofawoman.

Going into a corner among the heaps of freight, his mind still filled with thevision of the Indian with the redoubtable pack, Kit essayed to learn his ownstrength. He picked out a sack of flour which he knew weighed an evenhundredpounds.Hesteppedastrideofit,reacheddown,andstrovetogetitonhis shoulder. His first conclusion was that one hundred pounds was the realheavy. His next was that his back was weak. His third was an oath, and itoccurred at the end of five futile minutes, when he collapsed on top of theburden with which he was wrestling. He mopped his forehead, and across aheap of grub-sacks saw John Bellew gazing at him, wintry amusement in hiseyes.

"God!" proclaimed that apostle of the hard. "Out of our loins has come a raceofweaklings.WhenIwassixteenItoyedwiththingslikethat."

"Youforget,avuncular,"Kitretorted,"thatIwasn'traisedonbear-meat.""AndI'lltoywithitwhenI'msixty."

"You'vegottoshowme."

John Bellew did. He was forty-eight, but he bent over the sack, applied atentative, shifting grip that balanced it, and, with a quick heave, stood erect,thesomersaultedsackofflouronhisshoulder.

"Knack,myboy,knack—andaspine."Kittookoffhishatreverently.