Andrea nodded, doubtfully. While he had thought much of the possible glory
Chico might gain as a faithful messenger, for the first time he trembled
lest, in realizing the ambition, the safety of the bird might be
endangered. Thoughts of possible perils filled his mind with foreboding,
but he didn't wish Paolo to think he was turning the white feather, so he
swallowed hard and forced himself to say:

"I guess it will be all right."

"All right! I should say it would be," was the hearty response; "and just
remember, my boy, if you expect your bird to have a stout heart you must
keep up your own courage."

At last Saturday came, the day Paolo had set for the training to begin.
Andrea was so excited he had no appetite for breakfast and would have
rushed from the house without a mouthful if Luisa had not insisted that
he eat at least one piece of the hot polenta. But that was all--he almost
bolted it whole, and, without waiting for Paolo, was out of the house and
in St. Mark's Square at least half an hour earlier than ever before.

Not that it was much satisfaction, for hardhearted Paolo had carefully
placed the pigeon in the basket the night before, saying as he secured the
cover:

"He must not be allowed his freedom until we reach the Rialto, then he will
be hungry and doubly anxious to reach home."

"Can't we give him anything to eat?" Andrea asked anxiously.