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.
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