“What do you mean, Cousin Mayo,� asked Dick.
“Are the Greeks of Thermopylæ dead? Or Roland and King Arthur, who perhaps never lived?� Leaving Dick to make his own explanation, Mr. Osborne turned to Mr. Blair. “Will, give me two pounds of nails, please. I must be going.�
“Going!� said Mr. Blair, in surprise. It was an unwritten law that when a man came to the post office he was to loaf there until night drove him home.
“I’m busy making a new pigeon cote.�
“So you’ve gone back to the amusement of your boyhood, eh?� said Mr. Blair, as he weighed the nails.
There had always been pigeons at Larkland, Black Mayo Osborne’s home. When the house was built, the master, the first Osborne in Virginia, erected a dovecote and stocked it with birds from the family home in England. There they had been ever since. Sometimes they were carefully bred; sometimes they were neglected; but always they were there, flying, cooing, nesting in the quiet old country place.
As a boy, Black Mayo took great interest in raising and training them. And this spring he had sent to a famous breeder for new stock and had begun again to train carrier pigeons.
He answered Mr. Blair with a smile and a nod, and started out. “Hey, Dickon!� he said. “It’s a long time since you came to see the pigeons. Have you lost interest in them?�
“No; no, sir,� answered Dick, looking embarrassed. “I—I—that I haven’t.�
“Richard is—h’m!—keeping bounds this month,� Red Mayo said austerely. “He diso——�