Chapter 1065

Tao Yanbai quickly pulled the Third Prince out, while Miao He grunted twice and followed behind.

Tao Yanbai explained to the Third Prince: "This is an electric relay station. You have no one to send messages for you—what use is it to come in here?"

"What's an electric relay station?"

Tao Yanbai thought for a moment, realizing that since he had already entered the Central Plains, the idea of electric telegraph messaging could no longer be hidden.

Thanks to Pan Yun, every county in Great Ming now has an electric relay station—even the most remote and poorest places have installed a telegraph machine near the county government office for civilian use.

Little Master Shu said this was a people's welfare project, and it had to be done even if it lost money.

Since it couldn't be hidden anymore, better to be honest—and use it to intimidate: "The electric relay station transmits messages by electricity. You type your message on the telegraph machine, and in an instant, someone a thousand li away receives it, then translates it into writing and delivers it to the recipient."

The Third Prince's eyes were blank—he heard but didn't understand.

After thinking again, Tao Yanbai still pulled the Third Prince inside and told the people waiting ahead that this was their first time, and they only wanted to observe, not send a message.

The people in line instantly showed understanding and generously let them pass.

The room wasn't occupied by just one person, but five: one stood at the counter, holding a sheet of paper and a handful of coins; the other four stood before two scholars, quietly stating what they wished to say.

Telegraph messages require brevity.

The telegraph machines were donated by Pan Yun, but the clerks in the relay stations were all appointed by the imperial court.

Each station must have at least one telegraph operator, usually two, plus at least two more scholars to help civilians condense their messages.

At first, every county was troubled: first, they had no telegraph operators;

second, adding four new positions increased administrative expenses, overburdening the county government office.

Later, the Imperial Academy in Jingcheng urgently trained batch after batch of telegraph operators and sent them to each prefecture and province, where these trained personnel then trained others.

These personnel were mostly selected from county clerks or the children of officials, or from villages—those who could read, were quick-witted, and had good character.

Although Great Ming used the imperial examination system, traces of the recommendation system still lingered: every few years, local authorities would report filial sons or respected elders, publicizing their virtuous deeds and urging the people to learn from them—this was part of moral education.

The imperial court gladly rewarded such people, granting them privileges in various ways.

Those selected were sent to the prefectures to learn telegraphy from officials sent from Jingcheng; those who excelled were directly appointed as clerks, those with average performance were placed on standby, sent home, or continued studying under their instructors.

Among the people, rumors spread that telegraph machines would multiply in the future, and telegraph operators would always be in short supply—once they learned this skill, they would never lack livelihood.

Since this was a public convenience project, the government office set low prices: two wen per character.

But for common folk, two wen per character was not cheap—they used telegrams only for urgent matters; otherwise, they still relied on regular mail.

Few commoners in Great Ming could read; they couldn't even speak with focus, let alone condense messages—so the relay stations needed people to help them simplify their words.

Wealthier yamens didn't hesitate—they directly assigned staff; but poor, remote yamens lacked the funds, so they posted notices inviting literate scholars to set up tables inside the relay stations, charging each sender one extra wen.

Of course, if a sender could condense their own message, no extra wen was needed.

At two wen per character, if a scholar helped reduce one character, he earned back one wen—so most people gladly paid one wen to hire a scholar for simplification.

At this moment, the middle-aged man who had previously worn tattered clothes and blocked the Third Prince's entry walked in and began rambling to the scholar.

He wanted to send a telegram to his son—he was an outsider who had come here to make a living, once serving as a minor manager for a merchant caravan, but fell ill midway; the caravan, unwilling to carry him, left him here.