The Telegraph Messenger Boy; Or, The Straight Road to Success

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

  The cap-sheaf came when one of the metropolitan weeklies published anillustration of the scene, in which Ben was pictured as saving not onlythe mother and daughter, but the horse as well, by drawing them by mainforce upon an enormous block of ice! There was not the slightestresemblance to the actual occurrence, and the picture of our young herolooked as much like me as it did like Ben, who would have cried withvexation had not the whole thing been such a caricature that he wascompelled to laugh instead.

  But the general manager received a truthful account from me, togetherwith the statement that Ben Mayberry alone deserved the credit fordeciphering the telegram which foreshadowed an intended crime.Corporations, as a rule, are not given to lavish rewards, but the letterwhich the manager sent to Ben was more highly prized than if it had beena gold watch studded with diamonds, or a deed for the best house inDiamietta. His heart throbbed when he read the warm words of praise fromthe highest officer in the company, who told him to continue faithfullyin the path on which he had started, and his reward was certain. Thatletter Ben to-day counts among his most precious prizes, and nothingwould induce him to part with it.

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

  Ben was always punctual at the office, and never tried to avoid workwhich he might have contended, and with good reason, did not belong tohim. His obliging disposition was shown by his volunteering to deliverthe message which nearly cost him his life. The duty of the telegraphistis very confining, and so exacting that the most rugged health oftengives way under it, and persons take to other business before completelybroken up. But this debility is often the fault of the operatorsthemselves, who sit bent over their desks, smoking villainous cigarettesor strong tobacco, who ride in street cars when they should gladly seizethe chance to walk briskly, and who, I am sorry to say, drinkintoxicating liquors, which appear to tempt sedentary persons withpeculiar power.

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

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

  One particularly busy afternoon, just as Ben had finished sending off alengthy dispatch, someone rapped sharply on the counter behind him, andturning, he saw an honest-looking farmer, who had been writing andgroaning for fully twenty minutes before he was ready to send histelegram.

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

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

  "Jist let me know how much it is; I s'pose it ain't more than twenty orthirty cents. There ain't much use in sending it, but Sally Jane, that'smy 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 neighborswill stare."

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

  "It is very expensive to send messages by telegraph, and it will cost youseveral 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 tosend her a message with very little expense. There are many words herewhich can be left out without affecting the sense. Please run your penthrough 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 outthe superfluous words in this message, while its main points would beleft, the farmer's anger turned to pleasure. He took his pen, noddedseveral times, and turned smilingly to the desk, where he stood for fullya quarter of an hour, groaning, writing, and crossing out words. Helabored as hard as before, and finally held the paper off at arm's lengthand contemplated it admiringly through his silver spectacles.

  "Yes; that'll do," he said, nodding his head several times in a pleasedway; "that reads just the same--little abrupt, maybe, but they'll git thehang 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 theexpense 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 lookingstraight at him, and the boy would not hurt his feelings. He surveyed themessage 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 youcan improve much on that."

  Under the skillful magic of the boy's pencil the telegram was speedilyboiled 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-fivecents. Besides, it tells all that is necessary, and will please yourdaughter 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 broughtit closer to him, while he thoughtfully rubbed his chin with the otherhand.

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

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

  "Umph! That's so; but hadn't I orter explain to her that the Jim I metwas 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'nperlite 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, andyour daughter must be aware of that."

  At this rather pointed compliment the farmer's face glowed like a ciderapple, 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 orterspeak 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 meanthe roan mare."

  The old gentleman fairly beamed with pleasure, and reaching solemnly downin his pockets, he fished out anoth
er silver quarter, which he handed toBen, saying:

  "I like you; take it to please me."

  "I thank you; I have been paid," replied Ben, pushing the coin back fromhim.

  "Confound it! Take this, then; won't you?"

  As he spoke he banged down a large, red apple on the counter, and lookedalmost savagely at Ben, as if daring him to refuse it.

  The boy did not decline, but picking it up, said:

  "Thank you; I am very fond of apples. I will take this home and share itwith my mother."

  "The next time I come to town I'll bring you a peck," and with thishearty response the farmer stumped out of the door.

  I had been much amused over this scene, especially when Ben showed me theastonishing message the farmer had prepared to send his daughter.

  Ben laughed, too, after the old gentleman was beyond hearing.

  "It's a pleasure to do a slight favor like that. I think I feel betterover it than Mr. Jones does himself."

  "I think not," said I; "for it so happens that instead of that gentlemanbeing Farmer Jones, he is Mr. Musgrave, the district superintendent, whotook a fancy to find out whether his operators are as kind and obligingas they should be, I am quite sure you lost nothing that time by yourcourtesy and accommodating spirit."

  CHAPTER XII

  A CALL

  I have spoken of Ben Mayberry's fondness for athletic sports, and thegreat benefit he gained from the exercise thus obtained. When businesspermitted, I visited the ball grounds, where his skill made him thefavorite of the enthusiastic crowd which always assembled there. Heplayed shortstop, and his activity in picking up hot grounders and hiswonderful accuracy in throwing to first base were the chief attractionswhich brought many to the place. He was equally successful at the bat,and, when only fourteen years old, repeatedly lifted the ball over theleft-field fence--a feat which was only accomplished very rarely by theheaviest batsmen of the visiting nines.

  There were many, including myself, who particularly admired Ben'sthrowing. How any living person can acquire such skill is beyond mycomprehension. Ben was the superior of all his companions when a smallurchin, and his wonderful accuracy improved as he grew older.

  To please a number of spectators, Ben used to place himself on thirdbase, and then "bore in" the ball to first. In its arrowy passage itseemed scarcely to rise more than two or three feet above the horizontal,and shot through the air with such unerring aim that I really believe hecould have struck a breast-pin on a player's front nine times out of ten.I never saw him make a wild throw, and some of his double plays wereexecuted with such brilliancy that a veteran player took his hand one dayas he ran from the field, and said:

  "Ben, you'll be on a professional nine in a couple of years. Harry Wrightand the different managers are always on the lookout for talent, andthey'll scoop you in."

  "I think not," said the modest Ben, panting slightly from a terrific run."I am a little lucky, that's all; but though I'm very fond of playingball I never will take it up as a means of living."

  "There's where your head ain't level, sonny. Why, you'll get more moneyfor one summer's play than you will make in two or three years nursing atelegraph machine. Besides that, think of the fun you will have."

  "That's all very good, and I can understand why baseball is so temptingto so many young men. But it lasts a short time, and then the playerfinds himself without any regular business. His fingers are banged out ofshape; he has exercised so violently that more than likely his health isinjured, and he is compelled to work like a common laborer to get aliving. Ten years from now there will hardly be one of the presentprofessionals in the business, I'm sure."

  "I guess you ain't far from the fact, but for all that, if I had thechance that you have, I would be mighty glad to take in all the baseballsport I could."

  But Ben was sensible in this respect, and steadily refused to look uponhimself as training for the professional ball field. In looking back tothat time, I am rejoiced that such is the fact. There are many of myreaders who recall the popular players of years ago--McBride, Wright,Fisler, Sensenderfer, McMullen, Start, Brainard, Gould, Leonard, Dean,Spalding, Sweeney, Radcliffe, McDonald, Addy, Pierce, and a score ofothers. Among them all I recall none still in the field. Some are dead,and the rest are so "used up" that they would make a sorry exhibition ifplaced on the ball field to-day.

  Ben Mayberry was a swift and skillful skater, and in running there wasnot a boy in Damietta who could equal him. It was by giving heed to theseforms of healthful exercise, and by avoiding liquor and tobacco, that hepreserved his rosy cheeks, his clear eye, his vigorous brain, and hisbounding health.

  "Why, how do you do, Ben?"

  The lad looked up from his desk in the office, one clear, autumn day, ashe heard these words, and I did the same. There stood one of theloveliest little girls I ever looked upon. She seemed to be ten or elevenyears of age, was richly dressed, with an exuberant mass of yellow hairfalling over her shoulders. Her large, lustrous eyes were of a deep blue,her complexion as rich and pink as the lining of a sea shell, and herfeatures as winsome as any that Phidias himself ever carved from Parianmarble.

  Ben rose in a hesitating way and walked toward her, uncertain, though hesuspected her identity.

  "Is this--no, it cannot be----"

  "Yes; I am Dolly Willard, that you saved from drowning with my poor mammalast winter. I wrote you a letter soon after I got home, but you felt tooimportant to notice it, I suppose."

  And the laughing girl reached her hand over the counter, while Ben shookit warmly, and said:

  "You wrote to me? Surely there was some mistake, for I never got theletter; I would have only been too glad to answer it. Maybe you forgot todrop it in the office."

  "I gave it to Uncle George, and told him to be careful and put it in themail, and he said he did so when he came home, so it was not my fault. ButI am visiting at my cousin's in Commerce Street, at Mr. Grandin's----"

  "I know the place."

  "They are going to have a grand party there to-night, and I've come downto ask you to be sure and be there."

  "I am delighted to receive your invitation, but----"

  "You can go," said I, as Ben looked appealingly toward me.

  "Thank you, sir. Yes, Miss Dolly, I count upon great pleasure in beingpresent."

  "If you don't come, I'll never speak to you again," called the prettylittle miss as she passed out of the door.

  "I am sorry and troubled about one thing," said Ben to me, when we stoodtogether. "This Uncle George of Dolly's is the G. R. Burkhill whoreceived that cipher dispatch. I am satisfied he is a villain, andthere's trouble close at hand."

  CHAPTER XIII

  AT THE GRANDIN MANSION

  Ben Mayberry was born in Damietta, and his parents, as I have shown, wereextremely poor. He had been a barefooted urchin, who was ready to fightor engage in any reckless undertaking. As he grew older and became morethoughtful, he assumed better clothing, grew more studious, and, helpedby his fine ability and prepossessing looks, became popular.

  In addition, his remarkable skill in athletic sports made him well likedamong the rougher element, who would have been glad had he consented to"train with their crowd."

  In spite of all this, Ben failed to secure the social recognition towhich he was entitled. Many who would greet him most cordially on thestreet never thought of inviting him to their homes. Damietta had been acity long enough to develop social caste, which lay in such distinctstrata that there seemed no possibility of their ever mingling together.

  I was glad, therefore, when Dolly Willard called at the office andpersonally invited Ben to attend the party at Mr. Grandin's, which wasone of the most aristocratic families in Damietta. They were originallyfrom the South, but had lived in the city a long time.

  My young friend was somewhat dubious about going, as he had never beforebeen invited to cross the threshold; but there was no refusing the warminvitation of Dolly, who had walked all the way to the office on purposeto secure
his presence at the gathering that evening.

  Ben Mayberry was proud of Dolly; that is, proud that it had fallen to hislot to befriend such a splendid girl, but there were several things thatmade him thoughtful.

  In the first place, my reader will recall that the cipher telegram whichwas of such a compromising character was addressed to her uncle. Ben hadhunted out from the files in the office the first disguised message, andit clearly referred to a contemplated robbery of one of the banks inDamietta. This G. R. Burkhill was a criminal who was playing a desperategame, in which he was likely to lose.

  It was unfortunate that he was connected by relationship with DollyWillard, who was the cousin of the Grandins; but it was certainlyimpossible that either Dolly, the Grandins, or Mrs. Willard herself, knewthe character of the man. Such was the view Ben took of the matter,adding to himself:

  "I hope he will keep away, and that nothing more of the intended robberywill be heard. It is now the fall of the year, and they seemed to agreethat it was the time when the crime was to be attempted."

  It was one of the grandest children's parties ever given in Damietta.Little Dolly Willard had mourned her mother's loss as deeply as could anychild, but those of her years soon rally from affliction, and she wasamong the happiest of the three-score boys and girls who gathered in theroomy parlors of the Grandin mansion that beautiful night in October.