That evening a noble sunset flooded Wadsworth Scout with golden light. Groups of men stood about the small square, walking from the “Gooise” to the church, and returning again. The parson had locked himself in the church, and Pim o’ Cuddy had retired to his chamber. They watched the declining sun. As it dipped, the ridges and wrinkles of the Scout started out suddenly into strong relief, dramatic as if a scene had been changed at a playhouse; and suddenly a pigeon was seen to rise over James Eastwood’s roof and to wheel and circle as he neared his home. From every throat there issued an eager cry.
“Whose is it?” “’Tis Pim’s!” “Ho’d on—shoo’ll coit in a minute!” “Where’s Pim? Run for Pim!”
Some dashed off for the verger. The bird was wheeling in the golden light over the belfry of the church, the belfry with the new louver-boards. They recognised the bird—it was from John Raikes; and Pim o’ Cuddy was haled from his agonies of repentance. He stood peering up at the pigeon.
“Shoo’s trying to get into th’ owd coit—sitha!—shoo’s flinging hersen ageean th’ boards—th’ other coit, th’ other coit, ye——!”
“Is shoo from John?” a voice demanded.
“Ay—ay—it’s on her leg, look! Oh, coit, ye——!”
“Fotch a gun.”
A man ran off to the “Gooise” for a gun, and presently returned, ramming home a double charge. They clustered about the buttress of the church, and the man stood back to shoot. The parson’s prayers were interrupted by the bang of a gun, and the heavy charge of lead rattled against the louver-boards of the belfry. A yell of rage went up; the double weight of shot had blown the bird to morsels, and they scrambled among the falling flesh and feathers for the message. The message, too, had disappeared.
“Up to th’ roof, Tommy—see if there’s aught there.” A lad was hoisted up by the spout.
“Can ye find owt?”