The training of the birds went on after this at regular times. The
distance from home, of the start, was "jumped" twenty-five or thirty
miles farther each day, and its direction changed till the Homers knew
the country for one hundred and fifty miles around New York. The
original fifty birds dwindled to twenty, for the rigid process weeds
out not only the weak and ill-equipped, but those also who may have
temporary ailments or accidents, or who may make the mistake of
over-eating at the start. There were many fine birds in that flight,
broad-breasted, bright-eyed, long-winged creatures, formed for swiftest
flight, for high unconscious emprise, for these were destined to be
messengers in the service of man in times of serious need. Their colors
were mostly white, blue, or brown. They wore no uniform, but each and
all of the chosen remnant had the brilliant eye and the bulging ears of
the finest Homer blood; and, best and choicest of all, nearly always
first among them was little Arnaux. He had not much to distinguish him
when at rest, for now all of the band had the silver anklet, but in the
air it was that Arnaux showed his make, and when the opening of the
hamper gave the order "Start," it was Arnaux that first got under way,
soared to the height deemed needful to exclude all local influence,
divined the road to home, and took it, pausing not for food, drink, or
company.
Notwithstanding Billy's evil forecasts, the Big Blue of the Corner-box
was one of the chosen twenty. Often he was late in returning; he never
was first, and sometimes when he came back hours behind the rest, it
was plain that he was neither hungry nor thirsty, sure signs that he
was a loiterer by the way. Still he had come back; and now he wore on
his ankle, like the rest, the sacred badge and a number from the roll
of possible fame. Billy despised him, set him in poor contrast with
Arnaux, but his owner would reply: "Give him a chance;'soon ripe, soon
rotten,' an' I always notice the best bird is the slowest to show up at
first."
Before a year little Arnaux had made a record. The hardest of all work
is over the sea, for there is no chance of aid from landmarks; and the
hardest of all times at sea is in fog, for then even the sun is blotted
out and there is nothing whatever for guidance. With memory, sight, and
hearing unavailable, the Homer has one thing left, and herein is his
great strength, the inborn sense of direction. There is only one thing
that can destroy this, and that is fear, hence the necessity of a stout
little heart between those noble wings.
Arnaux, with two of his order, in course of training, had been shipped
on an ocean steamer bound for Europe. They were to be released out of
sight of land, but a heavy fog set in and forbade the start. The
steamer took them onward, the intention being to send them back with
the next vessel. When ten hours out the engine broke down, the fog
settled dense over the sea, and the vessel was adrift and helpless as a
log. She could only whistle for assistance, and so far as results were
concerned, the captain might as well have wigwagged. Then the Pigeons
were thought of. Starback, 2592 C, was first selected. A message for
help was written on waterproof paper, rolled up, and lashed to his
tail-feathers on the under side. He was thrown into the air and
disappeared. Half an hour later, a second, the Big Blue Corner-box,
2600 C, was freighted with a letter. He flew up, but almost immediately
returned and alighted on the rigging. He was a picture of pigeon fear;
nothing could induce him to leave the ship. He was so terrorized that
he was easily caught and ignominiously thrust back into the coop.
Now the third was brought out, a small, chunky bird. The shipmen did
not know him, but they noted down from his anklet his name and number,
Arnaux, 2590 C. It meant nothing to them. But the officer who held him
noted that his heart did not beat so wildly as that of the last bird.
The message was taken from the Big Blue. It ran: