“Oh, yes, I have plenty of letters,” Dick answered as he drew out a handful and showed them. “That’s all right,” the manager said. “Your money is here, Mr. Sumner. Just show these letters to the cashier, and he will pay it over to you.” His money there! why, it was less than an hour since he had telegraphed for it! But it was a fact nevertheless; and within three minutes he had the three hundred dollars in his pocket, in good crisp notes, and was walking back toward his old seat in the square. The ringing of the bells and blowing of the whistles for one o’clock, just as he sat down, reminded him that exactly an hour had passed since he first started for the telegraph office; and now the money was in his pocket. “That is almost worth making an article of,” he reflected; “sending from New Orleans to New York for money and having it here within an hour. An outsider would hardly believe it possible, but I can see exactly how it was done. When my telegram reached New York it was sent right up in the pneumatic tube that runs from the Western Union office to the Transport office, so no time was lost in the delivery. The office boy handed it at once to the city editor, and his reply to it was something like this, written on one of the office noteheads:-- Western Union:-- Please send three hundred dollars immediately to Richard Sumner, New Orleans, and charge to account of Daily Transport. J. H. BROWN, _City Editor_. “That went right down to the telegraph office in the pneumatic tube, and the next minute they were telegraphing the manager here to pay me three hundred dollars. And here’s the money in my pocket, and I take to-morrow’s steamer for Key West.” CHAPTER XIII. DICK BEGINS TO WRITE A NOVEL. “Come home,” was the order that Dick received in reply to his telegram from Key West reporting himself there and asking for instructions. He was very well satisfied with this, for various reasons. He was far behind in his facts, although he had been writing, writing, as fast as he could. While in Texas and on the Red River he had been writing still about Hot Springs; and even in Key West he had not begun yet to do his descriptions of New Orleans. However, there was a weightier reason than this that made him desire to go home. While on his travels the plot of a novel had somehow stolen into his mind, and he had worked it out so far that he was anxious to begin writing it. “I certainly could not do anything toward putting it on paper while I am traveling,” he said to himself. “My time is not my own now, anyhow, but even if it were I should have no chance. I can’t help thinking about it and working it out. The only way that I can ever write a novel is to have the whole thing thoroughly in mind before I begin to write, so that when I do write I shall know exactly what I am about.