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."