They kept looking!—they saw something werry like a whale, but a good deal like a first-rate bad "Sell!" The lapse of a few days was quite sufficient to convince the publisher that he had been taken in and done for—regularly picked up and done for,—upon the most approved and scientific principles. Rather than let the cat out of the bag, he made up his mind to pocket the shave and keep shady, not even "letting on to his partner," who in the course of the following week returned from Gotham, evidently feeling as fine as silk, about something or other.
"Well, what's new in New York—got hold of any thing rich?" was the first interrogatory.
"Hi-i-i-sh! close the door!" was the reply, indicating something very important on the tapis.
"So; my dear fellow, I've got a concern, now, that will put the sixpennies to sleep as sound as rocks!"
"No. What have you started in Gotham?"
"Exactly. If you don't own up the corn, that the idea is grand—immense—I'll knock under."
"Good! I'm glad—particularly glad you've found something new and startling," responded the other. "Well, what is it?"
"Great!—wonderful!—Carrier Pigeons!"
"What! Pigeons?"
"Pigeons!"