“Aye,” the seaman assured her. “A young one though. It may have run into trouble on its first flight.”
“Maybe it came from across the ocean,” Vevi speculated.
“Hardly that far,” answered the captain. “From the number, I’d judge this pigeon may belong to Harmon Green’s loft.”
Vevi had never heard of Harmon Green. She asked where his place was situated.
“About a quarter of a mile from Silver Beach,” Captain Tarwell replied. “Mr. Green breeds and races pigeons. If this isn’t his pigeon, at least he’ll know how to find and notify the owner.”
Vevi stroked the pigeon’s plumage, not saying anything. She had hoped that the bird could belong to her. But she knew now that she must try to find its owner.
“Snow White is a stupid name for a racing pigeon,” spoke up Jane. “Especially for one that isn’t a girl.”
“I like it,” Vevi said. “Captain Tarwell, how far can a pigeon fly?”
“Oh, that depends on the bird,” he returned. “The best racing homers have been known to wing home a thousand miles. But not young, untrained birds.”
“I’ll bet Snow White could fly a long way if he hadn’t hurt his wing,” Vevi declared proudly.