; within one minute of leaving the coop he was speeding straight
as a ray of light for the loft where he was born, the only place on
earth where he could be made content.

That afternoon Billy was on duty when the whistle of fast wings was
heard; a blue Flyer flashed into the loft and made for the
water-trough. He was gulping down mouthful after mouthful, when Billy
gasped: "Why, Arnaux, it's you, you beauty." Then, with the quick habit
of the pigeon-man, he pulled out his watch and marked the time, 2:40
P.M. A glance showed the tie string on the tail. He shut the door and
dropped the catching-net quickly over Arnaux's head. A moment later he
had the roll in his hand; in two minutes he was speeding to the office
of the Company, for there was a fat tip in view. There he learned that
Arnaux had made the two hundred and ten miles in fog, over sea, in four
hours and forty minutes, and within one hour the needful help had set
out for the unfortunate steamer.

Two hundred and ten miles in fog over sea in four hours and forty
minutes! This was a noble record. It was duly inscribed in the rolls of
the Homing Club. Arnaux was held while the secretary, with rubber stamp
and indelible ink, printed on a snowy primary of his right wing the
record of the feat, with the date and reference number.

Starback, the second bird, never was heard of again. No doubt he
perished at sea.

Blue Corner-box came back on the tug.

III

That was Arnaux's first public record; but others came fast, and
several curious scenes were enacted in that old pigeon-loft with Arnaux
as the central figure. One day a carriage drove up to the stable; a
white-haired gentleman got out, climbed the dusty stairs, and sat all
morning in the loft with Billy. Peering from his gold-rimmed glasses,
first at a lot of papers, next across the roofs of the city, waiting,
watching, for what? News from a little place not forty miles away--news
of greatest weight to him, tidings that would make or break him,
tidings that must reach him before it could be telegraphed: a telegram
meant at least an hour's delay at each end. What was faster than that
for forty miles? In those days there was but one thing--a high-class
Homer. Money would count for nothing if he could win. The best, the
very best at any price he must have, and Arnaux, with seven indelible
records on his pinions, was the chosen messenger. An hour went by,
another, and a third was begun, when with whistle of win