Gradually the pigeon ceased to struggle, and while not in the least understanding what it was all about, snuggled close to Andrea's breast, putting his head confidingly inside his soldier's coat.
"And, Chico," the boy went on, "you must do your part, no matter what happens. And, if you"—he choked a little at the thought—"and if you should never come back, it will be for Venice, and for Italy. We won't forget that, will we, my bird?"
As he spoke, he bent his head to listen caught a faint answering "coo," as
Chico snuggled his head closer.
By this time he had reached the War Office which was located in one of the buildings on the north side of the Square. In response to his knock he was ushered into the presence of a kindly official who sat at a table littered with maps and papers of every description.
There was a moment's pause, during which Andrea stood uneasily fidgeting, and his courage almost oozed away as he nervously twisted his cap.
But at last the great man looked up, and somewhat abstractly asked, "Well, my boy, what can I do for you?"
"Please, signore," Andrea faltered, as he took from his coat the precious bird, "please, I have a homing pigeon—"
At once the officer became alert. "A homing pigeon?" he repeated quickly.
"Is he trained to carry messages?"
"Si, signore." And the boy forgot his embarrassment in his anxiety to tell of Chico's exploits. "He won the blue rosette at a pigeon show at Verona, a few years since, and see, here is the record of his flights." With that he spread out the wings and the officer studied them over thoughtfully.
When at last he spoke, Andrea could not but note the light in the tense eyes and the eagerness of his tone: