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.”