But Pete Walthall interrupted. “To fly back here? You think it’ll come all that ways?� He laughed incredulously.
“A hundred miles!� It was Black Mayo’s turn to laugh. “He’ll make it in two or three hours. Why, man, I have had birds fly nine hundred miles, and they have been known to go eighteen hundred, flying over forty miles an hour.�
“Whew!� Jake Andrews whistled his unbelief, and Pete Walthall stared and laughed.
“That beats the dove in the Ark,� Mr. Tavis said doubtingly.
Dick now got in his question. “Cousin Mayo, aren’t carrier pigeons useful in war?�
“Certainly and indeed they are,� Mr. Osborne answered. Then, as Mr. Tavis still looked doubtful, he gave an instance. “At Verdun a company of Allied troops was cut off from the main line, and one man after another, who tried to go back for help, was shot down. At last a basket of pigeons was found beside a dead soldier. The birds were weak, almost starved; but the men, as a desperate last chance, started them off with notes fastened to their legs. Off they flew, through that curtain of fire no man could pass. The message was delivered; forces came to rescue the trapped soldiers—saved by those birds.�
Pete and Jake shook their heads incredulously.
Mr. Tavis pondered a while, and then said: “Well, they could carry that note just as good as that other dove could carry the olive leaf for Noah. I am going to believe it, Mr. Mayo.�
“Of course,� said Black Mayo. “What’s the matter with you folks? Don’t you always believe what I say? And why shouldn’t you?�
No one answered, and he went on into the post office, looking a little puzzled.