"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 ca.n.a.l, 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 ca.n.a.l gra.s.s 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, 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!"

CHAPTER VIII

A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE

Ever since Chico had become grown he had been in the habit of flying from his nest in the early morning for a brief survey of the Piazza. First, he would make his way to the famous well and, after a refreshing bath, would walk about on the ground for a while in search of stray morsels of food, perchance left by tourists the day before. Then, on the way back to his ledge, he would stop for a moment here and there among the statuary for a gossipy "coo" with one and another pigeon friend. But no matter how interested he became in the sights and news of the Square, he was always on his ledge in time to greet his dear human friends, upon whose appearance there would ensue such an excited fluttering of wings and such a delighted cooing that Maria would laugh aloud in glee, while Andrea emptied his pockets of choicest tidbits.

One morning, a few weeks after the trip to Chioggia, as Chico was making his customary early flight, his bright eyes caught sight of some enticing crumbs on the pavement close to the steps leading to the new Campanile.

They seemed unusually good, and he lingered for some time pecking, first at one and then another.

Suddenly he was grasped by a strong hand and hastily thrust into a padded dark box.

Poor Chico! His heart fluttered so that he couldn't think. Not but what he was used to being handled, and perhaps his prison was a new kind of basket, but even so he rebelled. There were no friendly cracks through which he could catch an occasional glint of light, but only a few airholes cl.u.s.tered at the top. Then, too, his quarters were so cramped that even the slightest flutter was well-nigh impossible; and, after a few struggles, utterly discouraged, and fearing the worst, he gave up and crouched down, entirely at a loss as to what had happened.

The Austrian, angered at having been thwarted in every attempt he had made to purchase the pigeon, had been watching the bird's habits ever since he had followed the old caretaker, and had deliberately planned to capture him in this way. His prize now secured, he made his way straight for a gondola and gave orders to be rowed with the greatest possible speed to his lodgings, and, on arriving, carried to his room the innocent-appearing black box which resembled nothing so much as a folding kodak.

How satisfied he felt with himself, and how he gloated over the way in which he had outwitted the old man! For a moment he held the box to his ear, as if anxious to a.s.sure himself that the bird was still there. Not a sound came from the trembling inmate. Had anything happened? Cautiously unfastening the catch, he reached in his hand and touched the soft head.

There was a slight quiver.

Catching hold of the trembling body, he lifted out the bird and feasted his eyes upon him. What a beauty he was! Not so large, to be sure, as some that flit about Venice, but so perfectly marked, and with so broad a breast, and such sweep of wings! He would profit richly by his morning's work. If only he could get his prize safely out of Venice. There was no time to lose. He might be tracked by that old fool of a caretaker, and in that case he would have had his pains for nothing. And if by chance the matter should be brought to the attention of the authorities, he might be arrested and jailed; the Venetians make such a fuss over their precious pigeons.

A knock at the door made him start guiltily and thrust the pigeon roughly back into the box. After all, it was only a messenger with a telegram recalling him immediately to Vienna, which, he reflected, fitted nicely into his plans. He would start the next morning, he concluded, as he carefully concealed the black box under the bed, and took more than usual pains in locking the door when he went out for dinner and to complete his arrangements in regard to leaving.

Chico heard the door close and knew he was alone. What did it all mean? He had never before suffered such indignities! To be placed by loving friends in his dear familiar basket, while he was being taken to some point from which he might make a glorious flight--he had long since become reconciled to that experience; but to be seized by a stranger's hands and ignominiously shoved into a black prison and hidden in a strange room--that was an insult his free spirit could not brook. For a while he felt too utterly despondent to make a movement, but after a little, very cautiously, he began again to feel carefully with his beak around the box in search of some crack. There was not one to be found. Next he tried with all his power to enlarge the tiny airholes. It was impossible, and he gave himself up to blackest despair.

When his captor returned he opened the box, took out the bird, at the same time placing some kernels of corn and a saucer of water before him. Chico had no appet.i.te for food, but parched with thirst drank feverishly.