"Ah, Devereux! Wilcox has just suggested that you might represent us in Morocco. There's every likelihood of something important taking place there within the next few weeks. The attack on Fez has completely taken us all by surprise. We want a man who will be able to seize his chance if there is the remotest possibility of making a good scoop. Are you willing?"
Devereux was; he had no home ties, and his ambition lay solely in his work. "I'll go, sir."
"Good. You must catch the Calais boat-train this evening. Wilcox will put you up to anything you feel shaky about. But, remember, the interests of the Intelligence are to be your chief consideration."
* * * * *
"So you are the Intelligence man? Say, we may as well chum up together; only don't forget, sonny, we are rivals in the game, you know. All's fair in the news hunt, you'll find out."
It was in the city of Fez—after Devereux had successfully completed the five days' strenuous journey from Tangier. The speaker was Arnold B. Craddock, the veteran war correspondent of the Moonshine, a tall, gaunt individual of about forty years of age, whose leather-like features, tanned by exposure to all sorts and conditions of climate from the Arctic Circle to the Equator, were permanently puckered into a thousand wrinkles. He was a citizen of the U.S.A., but had been acquired by the Moonshine in order to introduce hustling methods into that journal, and its proprietors, knowing Craddock's reputation, looked for great things from their "special."
Craddock was dressed in a serviceable suit of khaki, with double-breasted pockets. His legs were encased in untanned cowhide boots and leggings. Across his shoulders were slung his prismatic field-glasses, counterbalanced by a case containing an automatic pistol.
Devereux's outfit was almost identical, except that he wore putties in place of leggings, and a solar-topee, or sun-helmet, instead of the wideawake affected by his American confrère.
"I won't forget," replied Devereux, extending his hand. "We are to try and do each other as much as we possibly can, but be good pals notwithstanding."
"Guess you've hit it," agreed Craddock, who felt he could afford to be tolerant with the inexperienced youth whom the Intelligence had, in its mild form of insanity, sent out to represent itself. "But I reckon, sonny, that if you are going to do anything at all you'd best make a move. There's more than a 'squito buzzing around over there." And he pointed towards the mountains, whence a faint rattle of musketry was borne to the ears of the two journalists.