"Perfectly; I understand; now, where can these birds be had?"
Putting his thin lips close to the publisher's opening ears, in a low, long way, says the stranger—
"I've got 'em! R-a-l-e Persian birds—be-e-utis!"
"You understand training them?" says the anxious publisher.
"Like a book," the stranger responded.
"Where are the birds?" the publisher inquired.
"I've got 'em down to the tavern, where I'm stoppin'."
"Bring them up; let me see them; let me see them!"
"Certainly, Mister, of course," responded the Pigeon express man, leaving the presence of the tickled-to-death publisher, who paced his office as full of effervescence as a jimmyjohn of spruce beer in dog days.
About this time pigeons were being trained, and in a few cases, now and then, really did carry messages for lottery ticket venders in Jersey City, to Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore; but these exploits rarely paid first cost, and did not amount to much, although some noise was made about the wonderful performance of certain Carrier Pigeons. But the paper was to have a new impulse—astonish all creation and the rest of mankind, by Pigeon Express. The publisher's partner was in New York, fishing for novelties, and he determined to astonish him, on his return home, by the bird business! A coop was fixed on the top of the "bildin'," as the great inventor of the express had suggested. The wagon was bought, and, with two hundred dollars in for funds, passed over to the pigeon express man, who, in the course of a few days, takes the birds into his wagon, to take them out some few miles, throw them up, and the publisher and a confidential friend were to be on top of the "bildin'," looking out for them.