"
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.
"Not a morsel!" was the stern reply. "If he is to be trained at all, it
must be done right. Come, children, give me your promise not to interfere."
"We won't," they answered in unison, and though Andrea still thought
the treatment very harsh, he dared not again raise his voice in further
protest.
It seemed very forlorn not to find Chico waiting on his window ledge
when he turned the corner of the church, and with heart aching for the
imprisoned bird, he entered the dark little shed and looked anxiously for
the basket. There it was, in the corner where Paolo had left it, but, as he
called once, and then again, there was no answering "coo."
Andrea's heart sank; perhaps the bird was sick.
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