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