o seconds after first
being seen they were back. The flash of white, the rush of pinions,
were all so sudden, so short, that, though preparing, I was unprepared.
I was at the only open door. A whistling arrow of blue shot in, lashed
my face with its pinions, and passed. I had hardly time to drop the
little door, as a yell burst from the men, "Arnaux! Arnaux! I told you
he would. Oh, he's a darling; only three months old and a winner--he's
a little darling!" and Arnaux's owner danced, more for joy in his bird
than in the purse he had won.

The men sat or kneeled and watched him in positive reverence as he
gulped a quantity of water, then turned to the food-trough.

"Look at that eye, those wings, and did you ever see such a breast? Oh,
but he's the real grit!" so his owner prattled to the silent ones whose
birds had been defeated.

That was the first of Arnaux's exploits. Best of fifty birds from a
good loft, his future was bright with promise.

He was invested with the silver anklet of the Sacred Order of the High
Homer. It bore his number, 2590 C, a number which to-day means much to
all men in the world of the Homing Pigeon.

In that trial flight from Elizabeth only forty birds had returned. It
is usually so. Some were weak and got left behind, some were foolish
and strayed. By this simple process of flight selection the
pigeon-owners keep improving their stock. Of the ten, five were seen no
more, but five returned later that day, not all at once, but straggling
in; the last of the loiterers was a big, lubberly Blue Pigeon. The man
in the loft at the time called: "Here comes that old sap-headed Blue
that Jakey was betting on. I didn't suppose he would come back, and I
didn't care, neither, for it's my belief he has a streak of Pouter."

The Big Blue, also called "Corner-box" from the nest where he was
hatched, had shown remarkable vigor from the first. Though all were
about the same age, he had grown faster, was bigger, and incidentally
handsomer, though the fanciers cared little for that. He seemed fully
aware of his importance, and early showed a disposition to bully his
smaller cousins. His owner prophesied great things of him, but Billy,
the stable-man, had grave doubts over the length of his neck, the
bigness of his crop, his carriage, and his over-size. "A bird can't
make time pushing a bag of wind ahead of him. Them long legs is dead
weight, an' a neck like that ain't got no gimp in it," Billy would
grunt