The welcome at home was equally flattering. “You’ve about killed mother and me,” was Florrie’s salutation. “We’re just sore with laughing over that ‘Through Sleeper.’ How in the world could you do it, Dick? You’re never a bit funny at home.” “I don’t have time to be,” was the only answer Dick could give. He might have been hand-shaken to death if he had not been sent to Washington to write a series of articles about the National Capital--a mission that required time, and that was sure to keep him away for several weeks. He was walking down Pennsylvania Avenue one day when his eye was caught by an attractive poster on a bill-board. There was a big picture of a railway train, with red fire puffing out of the engine’s black smokestack, and some lettering above and below the picture. “Just a railroad advertisement,” he said to himself, and went on. But in an instant he stopped and turned back. He had not clearly read the words, but something about them seemed familiar. “The Through Sleeper,” he read on the poster in letters six inches long. Then came the picture of a train made up of sleeping-cars, and underneath the picture several more big lines:-- “By Richard Sumner. “The Talk of the Town.--New York Herald. “Nothing recent has approached it in wit and vigor.--New York Transport. “All Booksellers.... One Dollar.” This was Dick’s first intimation that his work had appeared in book form. He soon found a book store and bought a copy and went to his room in Willard’s Hotel to examine it. It was “alive with illustrations,” as he said, and they added greatly to its handsome appearance. The printer, the engraver, the binder, had all helped to make an attractive volume. For two or three weeks after the appearance of the book he was busy among the public buildings, going through the Smithsonian Institution and the National Museum, the Treasury building, and scores of others. One of his articles was to be a characteristic description of the White House; and with the aid of the Transport’s Washington correspondent Dick secured an appointment with the President. When the hour arrived he was shown to the second story of the White House, where the offices are; and for a few minutes he was kept waiting in the broad hall where Tad Lincoln used to play while his father was closeted in an adjoining room with Seward and Sumner, Grant and Sherman, and many another man of note. At length the private secretary stepped out and ushered him into the apartment where so much of the history of this nation has been made,--the Chief Executive’s private office,--and he was introduced to the President of the United States. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Sumner,” was the President’s greeting. “I suppose you came down in The Through Sleeper? You have kept us all laughing here for the last two or three weeks.”