DANGER AHEAD!
The earnest little fellow carrying his bird in a basket was now a familiar
object in Venice and attracted much attention from tourists and bystanders
who often collected in little groups to watch the graceful flights. To some
it was the subject of jest, and to them it seemed nothing short of folly to
spend so much time in the training of a pigeon, while others were loud in
exclamations of delight.
"Bello! Bello Colombo! [Footnote: Beautiful! Beautiful pigeon!] He's a
mighty fine bird, my boy!"
As for Chico, one could see that he greatly enjoyed his experience. He no
longer showed resentment at being shut up in the basket, but evidently
considered that a necessary prelude to his glorious flights.
One morning Andrea set out for the Arsenal, which is, as every one
acquainted with the city knows, one of the show places of Venice. In the
olden days, when the Venetians were first in the art of shipbuilding, it
was the working spring of their strength, their enemies looking upon
the stronghold with envious eyes as symbolizing her supremacy over the
Adriatic, and even now there was always a large number of strangers in its
vicinity.
Andrea approached and took his station, near one of the two great lions
that guard the entrance. He was accosted by a well-dressed Austrian:
"What have you there, my boy? Anything to sell?"
"No, signore," was the quick reply. But Andrea, intent upon his mission,
felt vaguely disturbed, liking neither the looks of the man nor the tone of
his inquiry.
Silently and with evident envy the man watched the pigeon's joyous spiral;
then he again addressed the boy:
"Come, now, what will you take for him! Twenty lire! [Footnote: A lire in
ordinary times is worth about twenty cents.] A. hundred? You must admit
that is a high price for a pigeon when it would be so easy a matter to
replace him. There are hundreds of pigeons in Venice."
"He is not for sale!" Andrea answered curtly, wishing the man would leave
him alone.
The stranger turned sullenly, not liking to be baffled, muttering under his
breath, "That bird would be worth any amount of money to me if I could but
secure him for the War Department in Vienna!"
As for Chico his troubles for the day had only begun. By chance he flew
somewhat lower than was usual with him, and thus attracted the attention of
a shabby, ill-looking fellow who with gun in hand was wandering about the
side streets, hoping he might be so fortunate as to get a shot at some fat
pigeon for a pot-pie.
After a quick glance to be sure no sharpnosed guard was in sight, he raised
his gun and fired. Startled by the report Chico quickened his flight, and
the bullet whizzed past merely grazing one wing and inflicting a slight
wound on his left leg. The pain, however, was sharp and caused him to slow
down, so that he did not reach his destination until some time after Andrea
had returned, much to the anxiety of his friends.
When he finally fluttered, exhausted, into the nest, the old caretaker
caught sight of the bloodstain, and exclaimed in alarm, "Chico, my bird,
what happened?" while Andrea, fairly beside himself, mourned as he stroked
his wounded pet.
"It was the Austrian! I know It was! I liked not his words nor the
expression of his eyes. And now Chico is going to die!"
"Nay, lad," Paolo answered, after carefully examining the leg. "It is only
a flesh wound, and he will soon be himself again. As for the Austrian--I
doubt very much if such was the case. I judge, from what you say, that
he is quite too anxious to get possession of the bird to run any risk of
harming him. More likely some greedy fellow shot him for a pie. I have
known such things to happen in Venice."
"Shot for a pot-pie!" repeated Andrea, hot with indignation, while Maria
whispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" at the same time gently touching the
bird's head, who responded with a mournful "coo."
For a few days the bird drooped and was quite an invalid: it was more than
a week before he ventured beyond the friendly precincts of St. Mark's
Square.
But he had learned a lesson which, later on, stood him in good stead, for
ever after he took care to fly far above the reach of cruel gunners.
Several weeks after this incident, Paolo himself took the pigeon to
Chioggia, some fifteen miles from Venice. However famous this little
Italian town may be because of the battle that was fought there in the long
ago, between the Venetians and the Genoese, it is now known chiefly as a
fishing village and a picturesque spot where artists love to congregate.
On leaving the steamer the old man, not wishing to attract attention,
avoided the broad street, with its arcades and cafes, instead picking his
way along the canal, packed with fishing craft of every description, until
he to a superb white bridge, the pride of the little town.
There he paused, and thinking himself quite away from inquisitive
spectators, loosed the bird and stood a few moments watching him speeding
his way above the beautiful white arch towards home.
How strong were the graceful wings, and how steady the flight!
It was a warm day in early spring; he threw himself on the bank of the
canal grass thinking how pleasant it was on the water's edge. Suddenly a
voice sounded in his ears causing him to start visibly:
"Surely, it must be a pleasant occupation to be a pigeon fancier."
The tone was ingratiating, but resenting the intrusion, Paolo looked
around and caught an expression that belied the smooth words, and made him
instinctively distrust the stranger who had accosted him.
He did not answer, and the man pursued: "No wonder, when you have so fine a
bird. May I ask for what particular purpose you are training him?"
"Only for a boy's pleasure," was the short reply. Paolo immediately
surmised that this was he of whom Andrea had told him.
As he rose to go, the man went on, still more suavely: "By the way, I have
a very special reason why I should like a carrier pigeon." He lowered his
voice. "And am prepared to pay any amount for him; will you not set a
price?"
Paolo emphatically shook his head. "He can't be bought! I tell you the bird
is not for sale!" And with that the old caretaker walked away.
He was troubled, and the remainder of the time before the steamer sailed
walked the narrow streets, too much disturbed over the incident to notice
the women in the doorways making lace and the children sitting on the
ground beside the narrow footpaths, their fingers busy knitting or
stringing beads.
He did not know that the Austrian followed him, and that, on reaching the
quay, the intruder chose a seat on the other side of the steamer. It is
no wonder that the artists go wild over the harbor, dotted as it is with
picturesque sails of yellow, blue, or red. Just beyond is Palestrina,
equally interesting, and known as the "narrowest town on earth," while a
little farther on the steamer skirts along manifold vegetable gardens, in
the midst of settlements whose simple homes are gay in their coloring of
pink, yellow, red, or white.
By the time the Lido was reached, the sun was low in the heavens, and soon
the lagoon was before them, bright in the roseate rays. After this it was
not long before Venice came in sight, more lovely than ever in the first
twilight.
With a sigh Paolo stretched his limbs, cramped by sitting so long in one
position. He was getting old, he reflected, and found even a few hours'
excursion tiring in the extreme. As he made his way towards the Piazza, he
decided positively that not one syllable would he breathe to the children
of his encounter with the Austrian.
"It would only worry them, and what's the use?" he reflected. "It's old
Paolo who must guard Chico"--and he shook his head--"I fear it will be a
hard thing to do."
At a safe distance the stranger followed until St. Mark's Square was
reached. There he concealed himself behind a column and watched to see the
location of Chico's nest.
It was so late that the children had gone home, but Andrea had left a
folded paper, weighted by a stone, on the window ledge. Opening it Paolo
deciphered, without difficulty, the boy's writing.
"Chico reached home at ten minutes to four."
"Bene!" the old man ejaculated, forgetting his fatigue; "he made it in
thirty minutes, and it took me all of three hours."
As he reached his rough hand in through the window and touched
affectionately the sleeping bird, the Austrian moved from his position and
slunk down a side street. He had found out all he wanted, and his malicious
expression changed to one of triumph as he muttered:
"I'll have that bird yet, in spite of the old man!"