This feeling of confidence lasted until they finished breakfast and Pietro had pushed back his chair, with the remark:
"And now, my boy, we must be off to see that wonderful bird of yours!"
Then his timidity returned, and beset by anxious fears, he walked silently by his uncle's side.
Pietro was in his most jocund mood that morning, jauntily swinging his cane, joking about the Rialto as they crossed it, and talking a great deal about London and Paris. His companion's courage gradually oozed away. In fact it was completely gone by the time they rounded the corner of the church and came upon the happy couple basking in the sunlight and cooing affectionately to each other.
"So that's the fellow!"—and Pietro pointed to Chico, entirely ignoring little Pepita by his side.
Andrea nodded, not daring to trust himself to speak.
"Hum-mm." His uncle cleared his throat. "Suppose you call him that I may see him closer."
Andrea managed a faint "Chico," and in an instant the pigeon was in his lap, burrowing in his pocket in search of the usual tidbits.
"Hum-mm." Pietro caught the bird firmly in one hand, at the same time swiftly running the other over the trembling body.
"Long wings, bulge prominent over the ear, broad breast, a clear, keen eye—"