It did not take long for Dick to find that to be in favor with “the old man” was to be in favor with everybody in the office. The office boys kept fresh mucilage constantly in the bottle on his desk, and there are few stronger signs of good standing in a newspaper office than that. He was often given special work that was not scheduled on the assignment list at all, with orders to report to the managing editor or the editor-in-chief; and as this work seldom kept him late at night, he had more time to enjoy the delights of the new flat. His clothes were as good now as any reporter could desire, he carried a watch, the last of his debt to Randall was paid, and he had a small bank account. Dick was happy, not only because of these things, but because he was thoroughly in love with his work, as every successful reporter must be. “You don’t have to go out again to-night, do you, Dick?” his mother asked as he lay comfortably stretched out on a sofa after the meal that was the family’s supper, but Dick’s dinner. “Yes, I must go back to the office,” he answered; “but I don’t know of anything to keep me late to-night.” “You’re working too hard, Dick,” his mother went on; “too hard and too much at night. You’ve grown taller since you came to New York, but you’re much thinner and paler. Where are those beautiful roses you used to have in your cheeks?” “Oh, bother the roses, mother,” Dick laughed; “they’ve washed off, I suppose, like the printer’s ink I used to have on my hands. And I don’t see why night work should hurt me. You know what Dr. Goode says: ‘It’s not working at night that hurts a man, but playing at night.’ I don’t do much playing by day or night. I get my pleasure out of my work, and that pays better. I’ll run down to the office, and I’m pretty sure I can be home by ten o’clock. Then I’ll have just the best night’s sleep you ever saw, for I do feel a little tired.” With this idea in his mind Dick went down to the office, and the city editor’s greeting upset all his plans not only for that evening, but for many evenings to come. “Sumner,” Mr. Brown asked, “how soon can you be ready to sail for Mexico?” It was a blow to Dick in some respects and a pleasant surprise in others; but he promptly answered:-- “I’m ready now, sir.” “Well,” Mr. Brown said, smiling at Dick’s readiness to start for anywhere at a moment’s notice, “there isn’t any steamer going just at this minute; but there’s one at noon to-morrow that you can take. It is one of Mr. Harding’s jobs, and he will give you instructions when he comes in at nine o’clock. You are to interview President Diaz for him; and we prefer to have you go by steamer rather than by rail, because that will give you a chance to touch at Cuba and some other points and write us some descriptive letters.”