arply 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 by telegraph, 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 XI

THE 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."

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