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,