CHAPTER VII

“Dear Mr. Melville—Tell mother I am all right, but in need of dry clothing.“Ben Mayberry.”

“Dear Mr. Melville—Tell mother I am all right, but in need of dry clothing.

“Ben Mayberry.”

CHAPTER VIIA THRILLING VOYAGE

On the night that Ben Mayberry started across the bridge to deliver the cipher message to Mr. Burkhill in Moorestown, he had reached the center span before he felt he was in personal danger. The few lamps which twinkled at long distances from each other were barely enough for him to see where he was going, and they did little more than make the darkness visible.

By the faint light he observed a carriage and single horse approaching. The animal lifted his feet high, walked slowly, and snuffed the air as he turned his head from side to side, like an intelligent creature which feels he is approaching danger. The rattling of the narrow planks under his hoofs and the carriage wheelscould be heard above the roar and sweep of the angry river beneath.

Suddenly the bridge trembled under a blow received from a gigantic piece of ice, which went grinding and splashing with such violence that its course could be followed by the bulging upward of the planks between Ben and the horse.

“My gracious! this won’t do,” exclaimed the boy, more alarmed for the vehicle and its occupants than for himself.

He ran forward to grasp the bridle of the horse with the purpose of turning him back, when he saw that he had stopped of his own accord, and was snorting with terror. Ben reached up to seize the bit, when he was made dizzy by the abrupt lifting of the planking underneath, and was thrown violently forward on his face.

The brave boy knew what it meant, and kept his senses about him. It was utterly dark, and he was in the icy water with a terrified horsestruggling fiercely, and in danger of beating out the boy’s brains with his hoofs, while the shriek of the agonized mother rose above the horrid din:

“Save my child—save my child!”

Fortunately for Ben Mayberry the bridge broke up in a very unusual manner. Instead of the roof coming down upon him, it seemed to fall apart, as did the narrow planking. Thus his movements were not interfered with by the structure, and realizing what a desperate struggle for life was before him, he drew off his cumbersome overcoat with great deftness, and then swam as only a strong swimmer can do in the very extremity of peril.

He heard nothing more of the horse, which had doubtless perished after a struggle as brief as it was fierce; but, unable to see anything at all, Ben struck out toward the point whence came the cry of the mother, and which was close at hand.

He had scarcely made three strokes when hecame in violent collision with a huge block of ice in his path. Without attempting to go around it, he grasped the edge, and, by a determined effort, drew himself upon it. Fragments of the bridge were all around, and he felt some of the timber upon the support.

While crawling carefully toward the other side, he shouted:

“Helloa! where are you? Answer, and I’ll help you.”

A faint cry made itself heard amid the rushing waters and the impenetrable darkness. It was just ahead, and the next instant Ben had reached the other side of the ice raft, where, steadying himself with one hand, he groped about with the other, uttering encouraging words as he did so.

Suddenly he caught hold of a delicate arm, and with another cheery shout, he began drawing with all his strength.

It was a hard task, under the circumstances, but he quickly succeeded, and was not a littleamazed to find that instead of a lady he had helped out a small girl.

But it was the cry of a mother that had reached his ears, and he did his utmost (which unfortunately was little) to help her. He called again and again, but there was no answer. He asked of the child the whereabouts of her parents, but the little one was almost senseless with bewilderment, cold, and terror, and could give no intelligible answer.

“She must be drowned,” was the sorrowful conclusion of Ben, who was forced to cease his efforts; and I may as well add at this point, that he was right; the mother’s body being carried out to sea, where it was never found.

For the time, Ben and the little girl were safe, but it will be seen that their condition was pitiable. It was a wintry night, the water was of an arctic temperature, and their clothing was saturated. The icy floor on which they were supported would have added to their terrible discomfort, had he not been able to gather togetherseveral of the planks within reach, with which he made a partition between them and the freezing surface.

Ben shouted at the top of his voice, but he was so far below the place where the bridge had stood that no one heard him, and he finally gave it up, knowing that even if he made himself known to friends, they would be powerless to help him so long as the darkness lasted.

The child, so far as he could judge, was no more than nine or ten years old, but she was richly clad, as he learned from the abundance of furs, silks, and velvet. She had luxuriant hair, which streamed about her shoulders, and he was sure she must be very beautiful.

She was alive, but faint and suffering. She did not wish to talk and Ben did not urge her, although he was curious to know her identity.

“I will learn all in the morning,” he said to himself; “that is, if we are spared until then.”

He was too excited and terrified to fall asleep, even had his discomfort not been toogreat to permit it, and he found he needed his wits about him.

Now and then the cake of ice which supported them was crowded by others, until it seemed on the point of being overturned, in which event another terrible struggle would be necessary to save himself and the little girl.

Then again, there seemed to be eddies and whirlpools in the current, which threatened to dislodge them or to break up the miniature iceberg into fragments, as the bridge itself was destroyed.

CHAPTER VIIITHE CIPHER TELEGRAM

The almost interminable night came to an end at last and the dull gray of morning appeared in the east.

Ben Mayberry chafed the arms of the little stranger, and even slapped her vigorously to prevent her succumbing to the cold. He was forced to rise to his feet himself at intervals and swing his arms and kick out his legs, to fight off the chilliness which seemed to penetrate to his very bones.

As soon as the boy could make use of his eyes he found himself drifting through the open country, where the river was fully double the width at Damietta. This gave the masses of ice much more “elbow room,” and decreased the danger of capsizing.

Houses and villages were seen at intervals, and multitudes of people were along the bank gathering driftwood and “loot,” and watching the unparalleled flood of waters.

Ben swung his hat and shouted, and at last caught the notice of the people on the bank. Two sturdy watermen sprang into a boat and began fighting their way out to the helpless ones. It was a hard task, but they succeeded, and Ben and little Dolly Willard (as she had given her name) were safely taken off. A crowd waited to welcome them and they received every possible attention. Both were taken to the nearest farmhouse, where a kind-hearted mother took Dolly in charge, for the little one needed it sadly enough.

They were within half a mile of a village which was connected with Damietta by telegraph, and before Ben would do anything more than swallow a cup of hot coffee, and change his clothing, he was driven to the office, where he sent the message which was the first wordwe received in Damietta to tell us that he was alive.

I lost no time in hurrying to the humble dwelling of Mrs. Mayberry, where I made known the joyful tidings. I shall never forget the holy light which illumined the thin face as she clasped her hands in thankfulness and said:

“I had not given up all hope, but I was very near doing so.”

Ben was driven into Damietta late that afternoon, where a royal welcome awaited him. He was cheered, shaken by the hand, and congratulated over and over again, and for a time it looked as though he would be pulled asunder. When he finally tore himself loose and rushed into our office, the operators and messenger boys were equally demonstrative, but he did not mind them.

I stood at my desk with a swelling heart, waiting for him. Suddenly he turned and caught my hand.

“He that is born to be hanged will never be drowned——”

He was laughing when he spoke the jest, but his voice trembled, and all at once he broke down. Quickly withdrawing both hands, he put them over his face and cried like a heartbroken child. He had stood it like a hero to this point, but now, with the crowd outside peering into the windows, he sobbed with uncontrollable emotion, while my own heart was too full to speak.

As soon as he could master himself he said:

“I must not wait any longer; mother expects me.”

He was out of the door in a twinkling, and in a few minutes the mother and son were in each other’s arms.

The reader may think that the most remarkable part of Ben Mayberry’s adventure on the night of the flood has already been told, but it proved to be the beginning of a train of incidents of such an extraordinary nature that Ihasten to make them known. There was a direct connection between his experience on that terrible night in February and the wonderful mystery in which he became involved, and which exercised such a marked influence on his after-life.

Fortunately, little Dolly Willard suffered no serious consequences from her frightful shock and exposure. She received such excellent care that she speedily recovered, and as soon as we could re-establish communication with Moorestown and engage her in conversation, we learned something of her history.

She lived in New York City and had come to Moorestown on a visit with her mother and Uncle George. He was the G. R. Burkhill who failed to receive the cipher dispatch which Ben Mayberry undertook to deliver to him on that eventful night.

Dolly said her father was dead, or had been gone from home a very long time. Uncle George claimed and took her to the city, firstsending a cipher dispatch to a party in the metropolis, and directing me, in case of an answer, to hold it until he called or sent for it.

Two days later an answer arrived in the same mystic characters as before. As it has much to do with the incidents which follow, I give this remarkable telegram in full:

“New York, February 28th,——“George R. Burkhill, Moorestown:“Nvtu vzhs ujmm ezkk tbn gzr b adssdg dizodf rntsg zpvs azmj xjmm jddo.“Tom.”

“New York, February 28th,——

“George R. Burkhill, Moorestown:

“Nvtu vzhs ujmm ezkk tbn gzr b adssdg dizodf rntsg zpvs azmj xjmm jddo.

“Tom.”

Cipher telegrams are sent every day in the week, and we did not concern ourselves with this particular one, which would have received no further thought, but for an odd circumstance.

On the day Mr. Burkhill sent his message to New York, he was followed into our office by a man who was shabbily dressed, and who impressed me as what is commonly called a“beat.” He spoiled several blanks without sending a message and then abruptly tore them up, put the pieces in his pocket, and walked out after Mr. Burkhill.

He was in the office several times the succeeding two days, made some inquiries, and sent off a couple of messages. Just after Ben Mayberry had received the cipher telegram given above, I happened to look across my desk and observed that the fellow had taken every letter, marking it down, as he easily interpreted it by sound.

It was only by accident that I made this discovery, for the man acted precisely as if he were preparing a message to send away.

CHAPTER IXTHE TRANSLATION

Mr. G. R. Burkhill overwhelmed Ben Mayberry with thanks for the heroic manner in which he saved his niece and strove to save his sister. He offered the boy a handsome reward, but I am glad to say Ben refused to accept it. He promised to write the boy concerning the little one, but he must have forgotten his promise, as a long time passed without anything being heard from him.

When I discovered that the seedy lounger about our office had carefully taken down the cipher telegram addressed to Burkhill, I was indignant, for it was well known that one of the most important duties which the telegraph companies insist upon is the inviolability of the messages intrusted to their wires. Nothing lessthan a peremptory order from the court is sufficient to produce the telegrams placed in our care.

I was on the point of leaving my desk and compelling the impudent stranger to surrender the cipher he had surreptitiously secured, but I restrained myself and allowed him to go without suspecting my knowledge of his act.

“Ben,” said I, addressing my young friend, whom I trusted beyond any of the older operators, “did you notice that fellow who just went out?”

“Yes, sir; I have seen him before. He followed me home last night, and after I went in the house, he walked up and down the pavement for more than half an hour. He was very careful, but I saw him through the blinds.”

“Has he ever said anything to you?”

“Nothing, except in the office.”

“He took down every letter of that cipher telegram you just received for Mr. Burkhill.”

The boy was surprised and sat a minute in deep thought.

“Mr. Melville,” he said, “if you have no objection, I shall study out that cipher.”

“That I think is impossible; it has been prepared with care, and it will take a greater expert than you to unravel it.”

Ben smiled in his pleasing way as he answered:

“I am fond of unraveling puzzles, and I believe I can take this apart.”

“I will be surprised if you succeed; but if you do, keep it a secret from everyone but myself.”

“You may depend on that.”

The odd times which Ben could secure through the day were spent in studying the mysterious letters; but when he placed it in his pocket at night and started for home, he had not caught the first glimmer of its meaning.

But he was hopeful and said he would never give it up until he made it as clear as noonday,and I knew that if it was within the range of accomplishment, he would keep his word. I have told enough to show my readers he was unusually intelligent and quick-witted, but I am free to confess that I had scarcely a hope of his success.

“I’ve got it!”

That was the whispered exclamation with which Ben Mayberry greeted me the next morning when he entered the office.

“No! You’re jesting,” I answered, convinced, at the same time, that he was in earnest.

“I’ll soon show you,” was his exultant response.

“How was it you struck the key?”

“That is hard to tell, more than you can explain how it is, after you have puzzled your brain for a long time over an arithmetical problem, it suddenly becomes clear to you.”

He sat down by my desk.

“I figured and studied, and tried those letters every way I could think of until midnight,and was on the point of going to bed, when the whole thing flashed upon me. You know, Mr. Melville, that in trying to unravel a cipher, the first thing necessary is to find the key-word, for it must be there somewhere; and if you look sharp enough it will reveal itself. One single letter gave it to me.”

“How was that?”

“If you will look at the telegram,” said Ben, spreading it out before me, “you will notice that in one instance only is a single letter seen standing by itself. That is the letter ‘b,’ which I concluded must stand for the article ‘a,’ for I know of no other, unless it is ‘I.’ Now, the letter ‘b’ is the second one in the alphabet, and stands next in order to ‘a.’ If this system is followed throughout the cipher, we have only to take, instead of the letters as written, the next in order as they occur in the alphabet. But when I tried it on the following word, it failed entirely. Luckily I tested the second in the same manner, and I was surprised to find itmade a perfect word, viz.: ‘chance.’ The third came to naught, but the fourth developed into ‘your.’ That proved that every other word of the message was constructed in this manner, and it did not take me long to bring them out into good English. This was a big help, I can tell you, and it was not long before I discovered that in the alternate words the system reversed; that is, instead of taking the letter immediately succeeding, the writer had used that which immediately precedes it in the alphabet. Applying this key to the telegram, it read thus:

“‘Must wait till fall; Sam has a better chance south. Your bank will keep.’”

“Now,” added Ben, who was warranted in feeling jubilant over his success, “that is a very ordinary cipher—one which hundreds would make out without trouble. Had the writer run his letters all together—that is, without any break between the words—I would have been stumped. Besides, he uses no blind words, as he ought to have done; and it looksvery much as if he calls everything by its right name, something which I should think no person anxious to keep such a secret would do. If he means ‘bank,’ he might as well have called it by another name altogether.”

“I think ordinarily he would have been safe in writing his cipher as he has done; but, be that as it may, I am confident you have made a most important discovery.”

CHAPTER XFARMER 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 themayor 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 thescene, 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 tocontinue 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 oftengives 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 Benhad 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 bytelegraph, 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.”

CHAPTER XITHE 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.”

“Your affectionate father,“Josiah A. Jones.”

“Your affectionate father,

“Josiah A. Jones.”

When Ben Mayberry had explained how much could be saved by crossing out the superfluouswords 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 eatCousin Maria, and sleep in the river to-morrow afternoon—with the roan—if she ain’t too buggy. Your affectionate father,“Josiah A. Jones.”

“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.”

“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 youwill 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 XIIA 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 assembled 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, whoparticularly 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 passage 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.”

“That’s all very good, and I can understand why baseball is so tempting to so many young men. But it lasts a short time, and then the player finds himself without any regular business. His fingers are banged out of shape; he has exercised so violently that more than likely his health is injured, and he is compelled to work like a common laborer to get a living. Ten years from now there will hardly be one of the present professionals in the business, I’m sure.”

“I guess you ain’t far from the fact, but forall that, if I had the chance that you have, I would be mighty glad to take in all the baseball sport I could.”

But Ben was sensible in this respect, and steadily refused to look upon himself as training for the professional ball field. In looking back to that time, I am rejoiced that such is the fact. There are many of my readers 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 of others. 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 if placed on the ball field to-day.

Ben Mayberry was a swift and skillful skater, and in running there was not a boy in Damietta who could equal him. It was by giving heed to these forms of healthful exercise, and by avoiding liquor and tobacco, that hepreserved his rosy cheeks, his clear eye, his vigorous brain, and his bounding health.

“Why, how do you do, Ben?”

The lad looked up from his desk in the office, one clear, autumn day, as he heard these words, and I did the same. There stood one of the loveliest little girls I ever looked upon. She seemed to be ten or eleven years of age, was richly dressed, with an exuberant mass of yellow hair falling 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 her features as winsome as any that Phidias himself ever carved from Parian marble.

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

“Is this—no, it cannot be——”

“Yes; I am Dolly Willard, that you saved from drowning with my poor mamma last winter. I wrote you a letter soon after I gothome, but you felt too important to notice it, I suppose.”

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

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

“I gave it to Uncle George, and told him to be careful and put it in the mail, and he said he did so when he came home, so it was not my fault. But I 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 down to 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 being present.”

“If you don’t come, I’ll never speak to you again,” called the pretty little miss as she passed out of the door.

“I am sorry and troubled about one thing,” said Ben to me, when we stood together. “This Uncle George of Dolly’s is the G. R. Burkhill who received that cipher dispatch. I am satisfied he is a villain, and there’s trouble close at hand.”

CHAPTER XIIIAT THE GRANDIN MANSION

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

In addition, his remarkable skill in athletic sports made him well liked among 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 to which he was entitled. Many who would greet him most cordially on the street never thought of inviting him to theirhomes. Damietta had been a city long enough to develop social caste, which lay in such distinct strata that there seemed no possibility of their ever mingling together.

I was glad, therefore, when Dolly Willard called at the office and personally invited Ben to attend the party at Mr. Grandin’s, which was one of the most aristocratic families in Damietta. They were originally from the South, but had lived in the city a long time.

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

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

In the first place, my reader will recall thatthe cipher telegram which was of such a compromising character was addressed to her uncle. Ben had hunted out from the files in the office the first disguised message, and it clearly referred to a contemplated robbery of one of the banks in Damietta. This G. R. Burkhill was a criminal who was playing a desperate game, in which he was likely to lose.

It was unfortunate that he was connected by relationship with Dolly Willard, who was the cousin of the Grandins; but it was certainly impossible that either Dolly, the Grandins, or Mrs. Willard herself, knew the 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 robbery will be heard. It is now the fall of the year, and they seemed to agree that 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 Willardhad mourned her mother’s loss as deeply as could any child, but those of her years soon rally from affliction, and she was among the happiest of the three-score boys and girls who gathered in the roomy parlors of the Grandin mansion that beautiful night in October.

The wages which Ben Mayberry received enabled him to dress with excellent taste, and, poor as he was, there was none of the sons of the wealthiest merchants in Damietta who was more faultlessly attired that evening. True, some of them sported handsome gold watches, and one or two displayed diamonds, of which Ben had none, but otherwise a spectator would have placed the young telegraphist on the same social footing with the aristocratic youths around him.

Among the numerous misses present were many dressed with great elegance, and possessing much personal beauty; but Dolly Willard, by common consent, surpassed them all in personal loveliness, while the rich and severesimplicity of her attire showed either the exquisite taste of herself or of someone who had the care of her.

Among such an assemblage of misses and youths there are as many heart-burnings as among their elder brothers and sisters. Dolly was decidedly the belle of the evening. Some of the other girls were so envious over her superior attractions that they openly sneered at her, but the aspiring youth were dazzled by the sprightly girl, who attracted them as though she were a magnet and they had a big supply of steel about their persons.

When Ben Mayberry entered the parlor a little late, Dolly was standing among a group of lads who were smiling and bowing, and making desperate attempts to be funny with a view of drawing her attention especially to them. It was natural that she should be somewhat coquettish, but the instant she caught sight of Ben Mayberry she almost ran to him.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she exclaimed,taking both his hands in hers; “and if you hadn’t, I never, never, never would have spoken to you again.”

Ben unquestionably was a handsome lad. His bright eyes, his white, even teeth, his slightly Roman nose, his well-shaped head, his clear, bright eye, and his rosy cheeks flushed with excitement, rendered him an attractive figure among the bright faces and well-dressed figures. His superb physical poise lent a grace to all his movements, while he was self-possessed at the most trying times.

He made a laughing reply to Dolly, who at once seated herself beside him and began chatting in her liveliest style, which was very lively indeed. To those who approached, she introduced him as the young man who had saved her life the preceding winter, until Ben begged her to make no further reference to it. Many of the other girls gathered around, and showed their admiration of Ben in a most marked manner. These were mostly from Boston or NewYork, who had heard of the young hero, but had never looked upon him before.

Dolly was talking away with lightning speed to Ben, who managed to edge in a word now and then, when a dapper young man of sixteen years spruced forward.

“They are going to form for the lancers, Miss Dolly; I believe I have your promise for my partner.”

“I thank you, Rutherford, but I have changed my mind, and will dance with Master Ben.”

This was a daring and almost unwarranted act on the part of the little empress, for Ben had not yet spoken to her on the matter. But he was quick to seize the advantage, and, instantly rising to his feet, offered his arm to Dolly, and started toward the dancing-room, as though the whole thing had been prearranged before the other party presented himself.

This act brought him face to face with thedisappointed young man, whose countenance flushed with anger.

“Rutherford, this is he who saved my life last winter, Master Ben Mayberry; my friend, Rutherford Richmond.”

The two saluted each other somewhat distantly; and with feelings which it would be hard to describe, Ben recognized the tall, rather callow youth as the Rutherford who stoned him several years before, when he was floating down the river on a log, and to whom Ben in turn had given a most thorough castigation.

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