His “stories,” as all newspaper writings are called by men who write them, were as picturesque reading as the quotations of a stock-ticker. The personal equation appeared no more offensively than it does in a page of typewriting in his work. Consequently, he was dear to the heart of the Consolidated Press, and, as a “safe” man, was sent to the beautiful harbor of Santiago--to a spot where there were war-ships cleared for action, Cubans in ambush, naked marines fighting for a foothold at Guantanamo, palm-trees and coral-reefs--in order that he might look for “facts.” There was not a newspaper man left at Key West who did not writhe with envy and anger when he heard of it. When the wire was closed for the night, and they had gathered at Josh Kerry's, Keating was the storm-centre of their indignation. “What a chance!” they protested. “What a story! It's the chance of a lifetime.” They shook their heads mournfully and lashed themselves with pictures of its possibilities. “And just fancy its being wasted on old Keating,” said the Journal man. “Why, everything's likely to happen out there, and whatever does happen, he'll make it read like a Congressional Record. Why, when I heard of it I cabled the office that if the paper would send me I'd not ask for any salary for six months.” “And Keating's kicking because he has to go,” growled the Sun man. “Yes, he is, I saw him last night, and he was sore because he'd just moved his wife down here. He said if he'd known this was coming he'd have let her stay in New York. He says he'll lose money on this assignment, having to support himself and his wife in two different places.” Norris, “the star man” of the World, howled with indignation. “Good Lord!” he said, “is that all he sees in it? Why, there never was such a chance. I tell you, some day soon all of those war-ships will let loose at each other and there will be the best story that ever came over the wire, and if there isn't, it's a regular loaf anyway. It's a picnic, that's what it is, at the expense of the Consolidated Press. Why, he ought to pay them to let him go. Can't you see him, confound him, sitting under a palm-tree in white flannels, with a glass of Jamaica rum in his fist, while we're dodging yellow fever on this coral-reef, and losing our salaries on a crooked roulette-wheel.” “I wonder what Jamaica rum is like as a steady drink,” mused the ex-baseball reporter, who had been converted into a war-correspondent by the purchase of a white yachting-cap. “It won't be long before Keating finds out,” said the Journal man. “Oh, I didn't know that,” ventured the new reporter, who had just come South from Boston. “I thought he didn't drink. I never see Keating in here with the rest of the boys.”