One glance assured her that this was a young bird, fully grown and feathered, who had not yet learned to fly. He fluttered hopelessly on the sidewalk.
“A beautiful bird,” was her thought. “Such lovely plumage!”
A passer-by with an ugly, twisted face leered up at her as he said:
“There’s something to eat.”
“Some—”
Jeanne did not finish. To her utter astonishment she saw that a very short man in a long greasy coat had captured the pigeon, tucked it under his coat and was making off.
“He—he won’t eat it?” she gasped.
“Come. We will follow.” Her companion hurried her along.
The short man, with the bird still under his arm, had turned south into a dark and deserted street. Jeanne shuddered and wished to turn back. Then she thought of the pigeon. “He is beautiful even now,” she whispered. “What must he be when he gets his second plumage? How proudly he will strut upon the roof-tops.
“Tell me truly,” she said to her companion, “he would not eat him?”