gures "$250"
scrawled across a printed form made out to the Cashier, and it was
signed "Rick Fergus."

In his uncertainty what he ought to do, Stuart went into the City Room
and hunted up his friend the reporter. To him he put the causes of his
confusion. The old newspaper man smiled.

"That's Rick Fergus, all over," he said. "Good thing you didn't ask him
any questions! He'd have taken your head off at one bite. He's right,
after all. If a reporter's any good at all, he knows himself what to do.
A New York paper isn't fooling around with amateurs, generally. But,
under the circumstances, I think Rick might have told you something.
Let's see. How about your passport?"

"I've got one," said Stuart, "I had to have one, coming up from Cuba."

"If you're going to Barbados, you'll have to have it viseed by the
British Consul."

"But that will take a week, maybe, and I've got to sail tomorrow!"

"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 Cashier. Come on down, I'll introduce you."

A word or two at the Cashier'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
s