The Telegraph Messenger Boy; Or, The Straight Road to Success

I made the acquaintance of Ben Mayberry under peculiar circumstances. I had charge of the Western Union's telegraph office in Damietta, where my duties were of the most exacting nature. I was kept hard at work through the winter months, and more of it crowded on me during the spring than I could manage with comfort.

I strolled to the river bank one summer afternoon, and was sauntering lazily along when I noticed a young urchin, who was floating down-stream on a log, which had probably drifted thither from the lumber regions above. The boy was standing upright, with a grin of delight on his face, and he probably found more real enjoyment in floating down-stream in this style than any excursionist could obtain in a long voyage on a palace steamer.

He had on an old straw hat, through the crown of which his brown hair protruded in several directions; his pantaloons were held up by a single suspender, skewered through them in front by a tenpenny nail--an arrangement which caused the garments to hang in a lopsided fashion to his shoulders. He was barefooted, and his trousers were rolled up to his knees. He wore no coat nor vest, and his shirt was of the coarsest muslin, but it was quite clean.

This boy was Ben Mayberry, then ten years old, and he was a remarkable fellow in more than one respect. His round face was not only the picture of absolutely perfect health, but it showed unusual intelligence and brightness. His figure was beautiful in its boyish symmetry, and no one could look upon the lad without admiring his grace, of which he was entirely unconscious.

In addition to this, Ben Mayberry was known to possess two accomplishments, as they may be called, to an extraordinary degree--he was very swift of foot and could throw with astonishing accuracy. Both of these attainments are held in high esteem by all boys.

I had met Ben at intervals during the year past, but could hardly claim to be acquainted with him. I usually bought my morning paper of him during the cold weather, and I knew that his father was killed by a blasting accident some years before. Ben was the only child of his widowed mother, who managed to eke out a subsistence somehow with the aid of the little fellow, who was ever ready and cheerful with his work.

While I stood looking at Ben, drifting slowly down-stream, and reflected that the water was fully two fathoms deep at that point, three other boys stopped on the bank below me to view him. They were strangers to me, but I observed they were unusually well dressed. They had that effeminate, exquisite appearance which satisfied me they were visitors from Boston, sauntering along the river in order to learn whether there was anything in our town worthy of their attention. They were apparently of nearly the same age, and each was certainly one or two years older than Ben Mayberry.

"Hello," exclaimed one, as the three came to an abrupt halt, "look at that country boy out on that log over there; he thinks he's smart."

"He's trying to show off, Rutherford," said another.

"I say, boys, let's stone him," suggested the third, in a voice so guarded that I was barely able to catch the words.

The proposition was received with favor, but one of them looked furtively around and noticed me. His manner showed that he was in fear of my stopping their cruel sport.

"Who cares for him?" said one of the party, in a blustering voice that it was meant I should hear; "he's nobody. I'll tell him my father is one of the richest men in Boston and is going to be governor some day."

"And I'll let him know that my father has taken me and our folks all over Yurrup. Pooh! he daresn't say anything."

Soothed by this conclusion, the three began throwing stones at Ben.

Ben was close at hand, and the first boy who flung a missile poised and aimed with such deliberation that I was sure Ben would be hit; but the stone missed him by fully ten feet. It was not until two more had been thrown that Ben awoke to the fact that he was serving as a target for the city youth.

"What are you fellers doing?" he demanded, looking angrily toward them. "Who you trying to hit?"

They laughed, and the tallest answered, as he flung another missile with great energy but poor aim:

"We're going to knock you off that log, Country! What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll show you mighty soon," answered the sturdy lad, who straightway pushed the long pole in his hand against the bottom of the river, so as to drive the log in toward the shore where his persecutors stood pelting him.

There was something so plucky in all this that several others stopped to watch the result. I secretly resolved that if Ben got the worst of it (as seemed inevitable against three boys), I would interfere at the critical moment.

"He's coming ashore to whip us!" exclaimed the tallest lad, almost dropping to the ground with laughter. "I hope he will; I've been taking sparring lessons of Professor Sullivan for a year, and I would like the fun of knocking him out of time. I can do it in three rounds, and I want you boys to stand back and leave him to me. I'll paralyze him!"

The others were reluctant, each claiming the happiness of demolishing the countryman; but the tallest, who was called Rutherford, at last secured their pledge that they would keep their hands off and allow him to have all the fun to himself.

"I'll try the cross-counter on him, the upper cut, and then I'll land a left-hander on his jug'lar that'll knock him stiff. Oh, how I ache to get him within reach!"