"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 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.