Andrea's heart almost ceased to beat.
Then, very slowly, Pietro went on appraisingly. "Very good, very good, indeed! And you say he has had some training?"
"Oh, yes!" the boy answered, and with glowing face, vastly relieved, "he has carried messages from ever so far, from the Lido, from Chioggia—"
"Have you kept his record?" Pietro interrupted brusquely.
At this the boy fished in one pocket after another, finally producing a grimy card, covered with figures.
His uncle took it and, after studying it over carefully, handed it back, saying:
"This is somewhat remarkable, and should be marked on his wings." With that he produced a tiny bottle of India ink a rubber stamp, and while Andrea, with fascinated interest, held the bird, Pietro copied the figures on the primary feathers of the right wing, remarking as he finished, "There, I guess that will attract attention from any fancier. You have really a fine bird, my boy, and I would suggest that it might be well to exhibit him at some pigeon show. There's to be one at Verona next week."
Andrea's head swam. What was his uncle saying? Go to Verona? Exhibit Chico? Impossible! Well he knew there was no money in the little home to pay for any such expenditure, but Pietro was not yet through.
"Your father and mother have treated me right royally ever I've been in Venice, and I am sure they will not deny me this opportunity to make some return. It will not cost you a single lira. What say you, will you accompany me? I happen to be going in that direction and can arrange to stop over as well as not."
Andrea caught his uncle's hands in a paroxysm of joy. In his wildest dreams he had never thought of ever going anywhere outside of Venice, and now, to be thus calmly discussing an errand like this, it seemed as if he could scarcely believe his ears.