There was a slight quiver.
Catching hold of the trembling body, he lifted out the bird and feasted his
eyes upon him. What a beauty he was! Not so large, to be sure, as some that
flit about Venice, but so perfectly marked, and with so broad a breast, and
such sweep of wings! He would profit richly by his morning's work. If only
he could get his prize safely out of Venice. There was no time to lose. He
might be tracked by that old fool of a caretaker, and in that case he would
have had his pains for nothing. And if by chance the matter should be
brought to the attention of the authorities, he might be arrested and
jailed; the Venetians make such a fuss over their precious pigeons.
A knock at the door made him start guiltily and thrust the pigeon roughly
back into the box. After all, it was only a messenger with a telegram
recalling him immediately to Vienna, which, he reflected, fitted nicely
into his plans. He would start the next morning, he concluded, as he
carefully concealed the black box under the bed, and took more than usual
pains in locking the door when he went out for dinner and to complete his
arrangements in regard to leaving.
Chico heard the door close and knew he was alone. What did it all mean? He
had never before suffered such indignities! To be placed by loving friends
in his dear familiar basket, while he was being taken to some point from
which he might make a glorious flight--he had long since become
reconciled to that experience; but to be seized by a stranger's hands and
ignominiously shoved into a black prison and hidden in a strange room--that
was an insult his free spirit could not brook.
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