"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 the coin back from him.

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

As he spoke he banged down a large, red apple on the counter, and looked almost 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 it with my mother."

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

I had been much amused over this scene, especially when Ben showed me the astonishing 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 better over it than Mr. Jones does himself."

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

CHAPTER XII

A CALL

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

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

To please a number of spectators, Ben used to place himself on third base, and then "bore in" the ball to first. In its arrowy pa.s.sage it seemed 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 he could 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 were executed with such brilliancy that a veteran player took his hand one day as he ran from the field, and said:

"Ben, you'll be on a professional nine in a couple of years. Harry Wright and the different managers are always on the lookout for talent, and they'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 playing ball 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 money for one summer's play than you will make in two or three years nursing a telegraph machine. Besides that, think of the fun you will have."