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 eat Cousin Maria, and sleep in the river
to-morrow afternoon--with the roan--if she ain't too
buggy. Your affectionate father,

"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."

"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 you will 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