done
when the news is as well covered and as graphically told as possible.

There are no such limits in the Sunday Editor's office. He must create
interest, provoke sensation, and build the various extra sections of the
Sunday issue into a paper of such vital importance that every different
kind of reader will find something to hold his attention. He has all the
world to choose from, but he has also all the world to please. The work,
too, must be done at high pressure, for the columns of a Sunday issue to
be filled are scores in number, and the Sunday staff of any paper--even
the biggest--is but small.

Fergus, the Sunday Editor, was a rollicking Irishman, with red hair and
a tongue hung in the middle. He talked, as his ancestors fought, all in
a hurry. He was a whirlwind for praise, but a tornado for blame. His
organizing capacity was marvelous, and his men liked and respected him,
for they knew well that he could write rings around any one of them, in
a pinch. He began as the boy entered the door,

"Ye're Stuart Garfield, eh? Ye don't look more'n about a half-pint of a
man. Does the Chief think I'm startin' a kindergarten? Not that I give a
hang whether ye're two or eighty-two so long as ye can write. Ye'll go
first to Barbados. Steamer sails tomorrow at eight in the morning.
Here's your berth. Here's a note to the cashier. Letter of instructions
following. Wait at the Crown Hotel, Bridgetown, till you get it. Don't
write if ye haven't anything to say. Get a story across by every
mail-boat. If ye send me rot, I'll skin ye. Good luck!"

And he turned to glance over his shoulder at a copy-boy who had come in
with a handful of slips, proofs and the thousand matters of the editor's
daily grind.

Stuart waited two or three minutes, expecting Fergus to continue, but
the Sunday Editor seemed to have forgotten his existence.

"Well, then, good-by, Mr. Fergus," said the boy, hesitatingly.

"Oh, eh? Are ye there still? Sure. Good-by, boy, good-by an' good luck
to ye!"

And plunged back into his work.

There seemed nothing else for Stuart to do but to go out of the office.
In the hall outside, he paused and wondered. He held in his hand the two
slips of paper that Fergus had given him, and he stared down at these
with bewilderment. Fergus' volley of speech, had taken him clean off
his balance.

There was no doubt about the reality of these two slips of paper. One
was the ticket for his berth and the other had the fi