The Telegraph Messenger Boy by Edward Sylvester Ellis (fantasy novels to read TXT) 📖

would have been safe in writing his cipher as he has done; but, be that as it may, I am confident you have made a most important discovery."


CHAPTER X

FARMER JONES

The conclusion which I formed respecting the cipher telegram, so cleverly translated by Ben Mayberry, was that it concerned an intended robbery of one of the banks in Damietta, and that the crime, for the reason hinted in the dispatch, was postponed until the succeeding autumn.

Under such circumstances it will be seen that it was my duty to communicate with the general manager of the company, which I proceeded to do without delay. In reply, he instructed me to place myself in communication with the mayor of the city, whose province it was to make provision against what certainly looked like a contemplated crime.

This instruction was carried out, and the mayor promptly took every means at his command to checkmate any movement of the suspected party. He arranged to shadow him by one of the best detectives in the country, while I agreed to notify him of the contents of any more suspicious telegrams passing over the wires.

It need hardly be said that the friends of Ben Mayberry and myself took care that his exploit on the memorable winter night should not pass by unnoticed. The single daily paper published in Damietta gave a thrilling account of the carrying away of the bridge, and the terrible struggle of the boy in the raging river--an account which was so magnified that we laughed, and Ben was angry and disgusted. One of the best traits of the boy was his modesty, and it was manifest to everyone that this continued laudation was distasteful to him in the highest degree.

The cap-sheaf came when one of the metropolitan weeklies published an illustration of the scene, in which Ben was pictured as saving not only the mother and daughter, but the horse as well, by drawing them by main force upon an enormous block of ice! There was not the slightest resemblance to the actual occurrence, and the picture of our young hero looked as much like me as it did like Ben, who would have cried with vexation had not the whole thing been such a caricature that he was compelled to laugh instead.

But the general manager received a truthful account from me, together with the statement that Ben Mayberry alone deserved the credit for deciphering the telegram which foreshadowed an intended crime. Corporations, as a rule, are not given to lavish rewards, but the letter which the manager sent to Ben was more highly prized than if it had been a gold watch studded with diamonds, or a deed for the best house in Diamietta. His heart throbbed when he read the warm words of praise from the highest officer in the company, who told him to continue faithfully in the path on which he had started, and his reward was certain. That letter Ben to-day counts among his most precious prizes, and nothing would induce him to part with it.

The best thing about this whole business was the fact that Ben never lost his head through the profusion of compliments from those in authority. He realized that the straight road to success lay not through accidental occurrences, which may have befriended him, but it was only by hard, painstaking, and long-continued application that substantial and enduring success is attained.

Ben was always punctual at the office, and never tried to avoid work which he might have contended, and with good reason, did not belong to him. His obliging disposition was shown by his volunteering to deliver the message which nearly cost him his life. The duty of the telegraphist is very confining, and so exacting that the most rugged health often gives way under it, and persons take to other business before completely broken up. But this debility is often the fault of the operators themselves, who sit bent over their desks, smoking villainous cigarettes or strong tobacco, who ride in street cars when they should gladly seize the chance to walk briskly, and who, I am sorry to say, drink intoxicating liquors, which appear to tempt sedentary persons with peculiar power.

Ben Mayberry had none of these baneful habits. He lived a long distance from the office, and although the street cars passed within a block of his home, I never knew him to ride on one, no matter how severe the weather might be.

Besides this, he belonged to a baseball club, and, in good weather, when we were not pushed, managed to get away several times a week during which he gained enough vitality and renewed vigor to last him for days.

One particularly busy afternoon, just as Ben had finished sending off a lengthy dispatch, someone rapped sharply on the counter behind him, and turning, he saw an honest-looking farmer, who had been writing and groaning for fully twenty minutes before he was ready to send his telegram.

"Can you send that to Makeville, young man?"

"Yes, sir," answered Ben, springing to his feet, and taking the smeared and blotted paper from his hand.

"Jist let me know how much it is; I s'pose it ain't more than twenty or thirty cents. There ain't much use in sending it, but Sally Jane, that's my daughter, was anxious for me to send her a telegraphic dispatch, 'cause she never got one, and she'll feel proud to see how the neighbors will stare."

Ben had started to count the words, but he paused, and repressing a smile over the simplicity of the man, said:

"It is very expensive to send messages by telegraph, and it will cost you several dollars to send this----"

"Thunderation!" broke in the indignant old man, growing red in the face. "I won't patronize any sich frauds."

He started to go out, when Ben checked him pleasantly.

"It will be too bad to disappoint your daughter, and we can arrange to send her a message with very little expense. There are many words here which can be left out without affecting the sense. Please run your pen through these, and let me look at it again."


CHAPTER XI

THE VALUE OF COURTESY

The following is the message as first written out by the old farmer:

"Sally Jane Jones, Makeville,--I take my pen in hand to
inform you that I arrived safely in Damietta this morning.
I have seen Jim, your brother. His baby is dead in love
with me, and they all join in sending their love to you. I
expect to eat my supper with Cousin Maria and sleep in
their house by the river. I will be home to-morrow
afternoon. Meet me at the station with the roan mare, if
she ain't too tired to draw the buggy.

"Your affectionate father,
"Josiah A. Jones."

When Ben Mayberry had explained how much could be saved by crossing out the superfluous words in this message, while its main points would be left, the farmer's anger turned to pleasure. He took his pen, nodded several times, and turned smilingly to the desk, where he stood for fully a quarter of an hour, groaning, writing, and crossing out words. He labored as hard as before, and finally held the paper off at arm's length and contemplated it admiringly through his silver spectacles.

"Yes; that'll do," he said, nodding his head several times in a pleased way; "that reads just the same--little abrupt, maybe, but they'll git the hang of it, and it'll please Sally Jane, who is a good darter. Here, young man, jist figger onto that, will you, and let me know how much the expense is."

Ben took the paper, and under the labored manipulation of the old farmer, he found it was changed in this amazing fashion:

"I take my hand--Damietta. Jim, your brother--the baby is
dead--I expect to eat Cousin Maria, and sleep in the river
to-morrow afternoon--with the roan--if she ain't too
buggy. Your affectionate father,

"Josiah A. Jones."

It was hard for Ben to suppress his laughter, but the farmer was looking straight at him, and the boy would not hurt his feelings. He surveyed the message a minute, and then said:

"Perhaps I can help you a little on this."

"You can try if you want to," grunted the old man; "but I don't think you can improve much on that."

Under the skillful magic of the boy's pencil the telegram was speedily boiled into this shape:

"Met Jim--all well--meet me with roan to-morrow afternoon.

J. A. Jones."

"There are ten words," explained Ben, "and that will cost you twenty-five cents. Besides, it tells all that is necessary, and will please your daughter just as much as if it were five times as long."

Mr. Jones took it up again, held it up at arm's length and then brought it closer to him, while he thoughtfully rubbed his chin with the other hand.

"I s'pose that's right," he finally said, "but don't you think you orter tell her I have arrived in Damietta?"

"She must know you have arrived here, or you couldn't send the telegram to her."

"Umph! That's so; but hadn't I orter explain to her that the Jim I met was her brother?"

"Is there any Jim you expect to see except your son?"

"No, that's so. I swan to gracious! But I thought it wasn't more'n perlite ter tell her that Cousin Maria's baby is dead in love with me."

"I am sure that every baby which sees you will fall in love with you, and your daughter must be aware of that."

At this rather pointed compliment the farmer's face glowed like a cider apple, and his smile seemed almost to reach to his ears.

"I swan; but you're a peart chap. What wages do you git?"

"Forty-five dollars a month."

"Well, you airn it, you jist bet; but I was goin' to say that I orter speak of the roan mare, don't you think?"

"Have you more than one horse that is of a roan color?"

"No, sir."

"Then when you speak of the roan, they must know that you can only mean the roan mare."

The old gentleman fairly beamed with pleasure, and reaching solemnly down in his pockets, he fished out another silver quarter, which he handed to Ben, saying:

"I like you; take it to please me."

"I thank you; I have been paid," replied Ben, pushing