"Don't discharge birds after sunset," ran his reply; "they're afraid
to go home in the dark--that's all I recollect. Ask the Skipper.
P.S.--Got a bit of bully beef going spare? I'm tucked up something
terrible."
I sighed and sent my messenger on to the Skipper, inquiring the
official method of exercising pigeons. Half an hour later his answer
reached me--
"Don't know. Try eating 'em. That's what I'm doing with mine."
While on the subject of carrier-pigeons, I may mention that one
winter night I was summoned to Corps H.Q. Said a Red Hat: "We are
going to be rude to the Boche at dawn and we want you to go over with
the boys. When you reach your objectives just drop us a pigeon to
say so. Here's a chit, take it to the pigeon loft and get a good
nippy fowl. Good night and good luck."
I found the pigeon-fancier inside an old London omnibus which served
for a pigeon-loft, spoon-feeding a sick bird. A dour Lancastrian,
the fancier studied my chit with a sour eye, then, grumbling that he
didn't know what the army was coming to turning birds out of bed at
this hour, he slowly climbed a ladder and, poking his head through a
trap in the roof, addressed himself to the pigeons.
"That you, Flossie? No, you can't go with them tail feathers missing
to the General's cat. Jellicoe--no, you can't go neither, you've 'ad
a 'ard day out with them tanks. Nasty cough you've got, Gaby; I'll
give you a drop of 'ot for it presently. You're breathin' very
'eavy, Joffre; been over-eatin' yourself again, I suppose--couldn't
fly a yard. Eustace, you're for it."
He backed down the ladder, grasping the unfortunate Eustace, stuffed
it in a basket and handed it to me.
"I hope this is a good bird," said I, "nippy and all that?"
The fancier snorted, "Good bird? Nothing can't stop 'im, barrages,
smoke, nothing. 'E's deserved the V.C. scores of times over; 'e's
the best bird in the army, an' don't you forget it, sir."