But at the station another ordeal confronted him. Pietro had insisted when
they were first discussing coming to Verona that Chico must fly home, and
to this Andrea, at the time, had consented. Now he wished he had not. He
felt it almost an impossibility again to relinquish his bird, and pleaded
with Pietro to release him from his promise. But, no, his uncle was
obdurate, and was moved by no entreaties.
"Of what are you afraid? A bird which has the blue rosette can find his way
from Verona. He must carry the news of his victory himself, and I miss my
guess, if he doesn't reach home before you do."
"But it looks most terribly like a storm," the boy expostulated, his eyes
resting uneasily on the angry clouds looming over the castled hills.
"And what if it does rain? A homing pigeon has a stout heart and I warrant
it will take more than a thunder-storm to dismay our prize bird." And with
that he fastened to Chico's leg a little aluminum pouch, in which was a bit
of paper, containing the laconic message, "WON--THE BLUE ROSETTE!"
Andrea made no further protest, and away flew the bird, circling into the
air above, then, by still wider circles, higher and higher until he was
finally off.
Andrea watched until the mere speck in the distance had completely
disappeared. Venice seemed very far away! With a sinking heart he made his
way across the platform, and climbed into the little train from the window
of which he forlornly waved "good-bye" to the irrepressible Pietro, who,
after shouting a final injunction to the lad to "buck-up," and to be sure
and let him know how long Chico took to make the trip by his "air-line,"
jauntily waved his hand, and the train, moved out.
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