free delivery, which Mr. Burkhill understood, as he remarked that he would pay well for the trouble.

I assured him that I would see that the telegram reached him that night, if received before ten o’clock. Thanking me, he said good-evening, passed out, mounted his horse, and galloped away in the wintry darkness.

It was in the month of February, but the weather was mild for that season, and there had been a plentiful fall of rain. Ben was on duty until ten, and he was in the very act of rising from his seat when he called out:

“Helloa! here comes the message for Mr. Burkhill.”

It was quite brief and Ben wrote it out rapidly, took a hasty impression, thrust it into the damp yellow envelope, and whistled for a messenger boy. There was only one present, and he was a pale, delicate lad, who had gone on duty that day after a week’s illness.

“Helloa, Tim; do you want to earn a half dollar extra?” asked Ben, as the boy stood expectantly before him.

“I would like to, if it isn’t too hard for me.”

Ben looked sharply at him and saw that the boy was in too weak a state to undertake the task. There was no other messenger within call, and Mr. Burkhill was doubtless impatient for the message whose delivery I had guaranteed.

“It won’t do for you to cross the river to-night,” said Ben decisively; “the air is damp and raw, and I think it is going to rain again. I’ll do it for you, and whatever extra I collect from Mr. Burkhill you shall have, Tim; now go home and go to bed.”

And waving me a good-night, Ben hurried out of the door and vanished down the street.

“It’s just like him,” I muttered, as I prepared to go home; for except on special occasions we closed our office at ten, or shortly after. “That isn’t the first kindness he has done that boy, and everyone in the office is bound by gratitude to him.”

As I stepped out on the street I observed that the fine mist was turning into rain, and another of those dismal nights, which are often experienced in the Middle States during the latter part of winter, was upon the city.

I did not feel sleepy after reaching home. My wife and two children had retired and were sound asleep. There was no one astir but myself, and drawing my chair to the fire, I began reading the evening paper.

Fully an hour had passed in this manner and I was in the act of rising from my chair, with the purpose of going to bed, when a sharp ring of the bell startled me as though I had heard burglars in the house. I felt instinctively that something serious had happened as I hurried to the door.

“Did Ben Mayberry take a telegraphic message across the river to-night?” asked the man, whom I recognized as a policeman.

“He started to do so,” I answered tremblingly. “What’s wrong.”

“It’s the last message he’ll ever deliver; he has probably been killed!”

“Yes, it’s the last message he’ll ever deliver,” repeated the policeman; “Ben Mayberry has probably been killed!”

These were the terrible words spoken by the man who had rung my bell in the middle of the night, and startled me almost out of my senses. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and with a voice tremulous with emotion, said:

“No, no! it cannot be. Who would kill him?”

“I don’t mean he was murdered,” the officer hastened to add, seeing my mistake. “He was on the middle span of the bridge when it was carried away by the flood, and that’s the last of him!”

I drew a great sigh of relief. There was something unspeakably dreadful in the thought of noble Ben Mayberry being killed by anyone, and it lifted a vast burden from my shoulders to be told that no such awful fate had overtaken him.

But instantly came the staggering terror that the boy had gone down in the wreck and ruin, and at that moment was floating among the great masses of ice and débris that were sweeping swiftly down the river toward the sea.

“How was it?” I asked, after the officer had refused my invitation to enter.

“The river began rising very fast at dark, but the bridge has stood so many freshets we were hopeful of this. The water was at the top of the abutments at nine o’clock and was still creeping up. Jack Sprall, who is off duty to-night, was down by the bridge watching things. A little after ten o’clock, Ben Mayberry came along and said he had a message which he had promised to deliver to a gentleman at the hotel in Moorestown. Jack told him the bridge was unsafe, but Ben said he knew how to swim, and started across, whistling and jolly as usual. Jack said at the same time he heard the sound of wheels, which showed that a wagon or carriage had driven on from the other side, which never ought to have been allowed when things were looking so shaky. Ben had just about time to reach the middle of the bridge when the crash came, and the big span was wiped out, as though it was a chalk mark on a blackboard.”

“How do you know of a surety that Ben Mayberry did not save himself?”

“He is very active and strong, I know, which made Jack hope he had pulled through. In spite of the danger of the rest of the bridge going, Jack crept out over it to the abutment, and shouted to Ben.

“It seemed that a couple of men had done the same from Moorestown, and they stood on the other abutment, with the middle of the river sweeping between and threatening to take away the rest of the tottering bridge every minute.

“When Jack called, they answered, though it was too dark to see each other, and they asked Jack whom he was looking for. He told them that Ben Mayberry had gone on the bridge a few minutes before from this side, and he was afraid he had been swept away. They said there could be no doubt of it, as he had not reached the span on which they were standing. They then asked Jack whether he had seen anything of a horse and carriage, which drove on the bridge from the Moorestown side, and which they had come out to see about. Of course Jack could only make the same answer, and when they explained, it was learned that the carriage contained a lady and small child—so three lives have been lost from people not doing their duty in keeping folks out of danger.”

“Does the mother of Ben know anything about this?” I asked, with a shudder at the thought of her terrible grief.

“Yes; I went up to her house and told her first, as I thought it my duty to do.”

“Poor woman! she must have been overcome.”

“She was at first, and then when she asked me to tell her all about it, and I had done so, she said very quietly that she didn’t believe her boy was drowned.”

“Nor do I believe it!” I exclaimed, with a sudden thrill of hope. “Ben Mayberry is one of the best swimmers I ever saw; he went down with the lumber of the central span, and even if he could not swim, he had a good chance to float himself on some of the timbers or blocks of ice which are buoyant enough to support a dozen men.”

“All that is very true,” replied the policeman, who seemed to have thought of everything; “and I don’t deny that there is just the barest possibility in the world that you’re right. But you mustn’t forget that the roof of the bridge was over him, and has shut out the chance of his helping himself. Don’t you believe that, if he