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208
Animal Heroes
·
Ernest Thompson Seton
50
III
That
was
Arnaux's
first
public
record;
but
others
came
fast,
and
several
curious
scenes
were
enacted
in
that
old
pigeon-loft
with
Arnaux
as
the
central
figure.
One
day
a
carriage
drove
up
to
the
stable;
a
white-haired
gentleman
got
out,
climbed
the
dusty
stairs,
and
sat
all
morning
in
the
loft
with
Billy.
Peering
from
his
gold-rimmed
glasses,
first
at
a
lot
of
papers,
next
across
the
roofs
of
the
city,
waiting,
watching,
for
what?
News
from
a
little
place
not
forty
miles
away--news
of
greatest
weight
to
him,
tidings
that
would
make
or
break
him,
tidings
that
must
reach
him
before
it
could
be
telegraphed:
a
telegram
meant
at
least
an
hour's
delay
at
each
end.
What
was
faster
than
that
for
forty
miles?
In
those
days
there
was
but
one
thing--a
high-class
Homer.
Money
would
count
for
nothing
if
he
could
win.
The
best,
the
very
best
at
any
price
he
must
have,
and
Arnaux,
with
seven
indelible
records
on
his
pinions,
was
the
chosen
messenger.
An
hour
went
by,
another,
and
a
third
was
begun,
when
with
whistle
of
wings,
the
blue
meteor
flashed
into
the
loft.
Billy
slammed
the
door
and
caught
him.
Deftly
he
snipped
the
threads
and
handed
the
roll
to
the
banker.
The
old
man
turned
deathly
pale,
fumbled
it
open,
then
his
color
came
back.
"Thank
God!"
he
gasped,
and
then
went
speeding
to
his
Board
meeting,
master
of
the
situation.
Little
Arnaux
had
saved
him.
The
banker
wanted
to
buy
the
Homer,
feeling
in
a
vague
way
that
he
ought
to
honor
and
cherish
him;
but
Billy
was
very
clear
about
it.
"What's
the
good?
You
can't
buy
a
Homer's
heart.
You
could
keep
him
a
prisoner,
that's
all;
but
nothing
on
earth
could
make
him
forsake
the
old
loft
where
he
was
hatched."
So
Arnaux
stayed
at
211
West
Nineteenth
Street.
But
the
banker
did
not
forget.
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