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: