Part 17 (2/2)

”Is that all your trouble?”

He stepped to the telephone.

”Consulate? Yes? _New York Planet_ speaking. One of our men's got to chase down to Barbados on a story. Sending him round this afternoon.

Will you be so good as to vise him through? Ever so much obliged; thanks!”

He put up the receiver and turned to the boy.

”Easy as easy, you see,” he said. ”The name of a big paper like this one will take you anywhere, if you use it right. Now, let's see. You'll want to go and see the Cas.h.i.+er. Come on down, I'll introduce you.”

A word or two at the Cas.h.i.+er's window, and the bills for $250 were shoved across to Stuart, who pocketed them nervously. He had never seen so much money before.

”Next,” said the reporter, ”you'd better get hold of some copy-paper, a bunch of letter-heads and envelopes. Also some Expense Account blanks.

Stop in at one of these small printing shops and have some cards printed with your name and that of the paper--here, like mine!” And he pulled out a card from his card case and gave it to the boy for a model.

Stuart was doing his best to keep up with this rapid change in his fortunes, but, despite himself, his eyes looked a bit wild. His friend the reporter saw it, and tapped him on the back.

”You haven't got any time to lose,” he said. ”Oh, yes, there's another thing, too. Can you handle a typewriter?”

”No,” answered the boy, ”at least, I never tried.”

”Then you take my tip and spend some of that $250 on a portable machine and learn to handle it, on the way down to Barbados. You'll have to send all your stuff typewritten, you know. Imagine Fergus getting a screed from a staff man in longhand!”

The reporter chuckled at the thought.

”Why, I believe the old red-head would take a trip down to the West Indies just to have a chance of saying what he thought. Or, if he couldn't go, he'd blow up, and we'd be out a mighty good Sunday Editor.

No, son, you've got to learn to tickle a typewriter!”

They had not been wasting time during this talk, for the reporter had taken out of his own desk the paper, letter-heads, expense account blanks and the rest and handed them over to the boy, explaining that he could easily replenish his own supply.

”Now,” he suggested, ”make tracks for the consulate. Stop at a printer's on your way and order some cards. Then chase back and buy yourself a portable typewriter. And, if I were you, I'd start learning it, right tonight. Then, hey! Off for the West Indies again, eh?”

”But don't I go and say good-by to the City Editor, or the Managing Editor, or anyone?”

”What for? You've got your berth, you've got your money, you're going to get your pa.s.sport, and you've got your a.s.signment. Nothing more for you to do, Son, except to get down there and deliver the goods.”

He led the way out of the office and to the elevator. On reaching the street, he turned to the boy.

”There's one thing,” he said, ”that may help you, seeing that you're new to the work. When you get down to Barbados, drop into the office of the biggest paper there. Chum up with the boys. They'll see that you're a youngster, and they'll help you all they can. You'll find newspaper men pretty clannish, the world over. Well, good-bye, Garfield, I won't be likely to see you again before you go. I've got that Traction Swindle to cover and there's going to be a night hearing.”

The boy shook hands with real emotion.

”You've been mighty good to me,” he said, ”it's made all the difference to my stay in New York.”

”Oh! That's all right!” came the hearty reply. ”Well--good luck!”

He turned down the busy street and, in a moment, was lost in the crowd.

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