The earnest little fellow carrying his bird in a basket was now a familiar object in Venice and attracted much attention from tourists and bystanders who often collected in little groups to watch the graceful flights. To some it was the subject of jest, and to them it seemed nothing short of folly to spend so much time in the training of a pigeon, while others were loud in exclamations of delight.

"Bello! Bello Colombo! [Footnote: Beautiful! Beautiful pigeon!] He's a mighty fine bird, my boy!"

As for Chico, one could see that he greatly enjoyed his experience. He no longer showed resentment at being shut up in the basket, but evidently considered that a necessary prelude to his glorious flights.

One morning Andrea set out for the Arsenal, which is, as every one acquainted with the city knows, one of the show places of Venice. In the olden days, when the Venetians were first in the art of shipbuilding, it was the working spring of their strength, their enemies looking upon the stronghold with envious eyes as symbolizing her supremacy over the Adriatic, and even now there was always a large number of strangers in its vicinity.

Andrea approached and took his station, near one of the two great lions that guard the entrance. He was accosted by a well-dressed Austrian:

"What have you there, my boy? Anything to sell?"

"No, signore," was the quick reply. But Andrea, intent upon his mission, felt vaguely disturbed, liking neither the looks of the man nor the tone of his inquiry.

Silently and with evident envy the man watched the pigeon's joyous spiral; then he again addressed the boy:

"Come, now, what will you take for him! Twenty lire! [Footnote: A lire in ordinary times is worth about twenty cents.] A. hundred? You must admit that is a high price for a pigeon when it would be so easy a matter to replace him. There are hundreds of pigeons in Venice."

"He is not for sale!" Andrea answered curtly, wishing the man would leave him alone.

The stranger turned sullenly, not liking to be baffled, muttering under his breath, "That bird would be worth any amount of money to me if I could but secure him for the War Department in Vienna!"

As for Chico his troubles for the day had only begun. By chance he flew somewhat lower than was usual with him, and thus attracted the attention of a shabby, ill-looking fellow who with gun in hand was wandering about the side streets, hoping he might be so fortunate as to get a shot at some fat pigeon for a pot-pie.

After a quick glance to be sure no sharpnosed guard was in sight, he raised his gun and fired. Startled by the report Chico quickened his flight, and the bullet whizzed past merely grazing one wing and inflicting a slight wound on his left leg. The pain, however, was sharp and caused him to slow down, so that he did not reach his destination until some time after Andrea had returned, much to the anxiety of his friends.

When he finally fluttered, exhausted, into the nest, the old caretaker caught sight of the bloodstain, and exclaimed in alarm, "Chico, my bird, what happened?" while Andrea, fairly beside himself, mourned as he stroked his wounded pet.

"It was the Austrian! I know It was! I liked not his words nor the expression of his eyes. And now Chico is going to die!"

"Nay, lad," Paolo answered, after carefully examining the leg. "It is only a flesh wound, and he will soon be himself again. As for the Austrian—I doubt very much if such was the case. I judge, from what you say, that he is quite too anxious to get possession of the bird to run any risk of harming him. More likely some greedy fellow shot him for a pie. I have known such things to happen in Venice."

"Shot for a pot-pie!" repeated Andrea, hot with indignation, while Maria whispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" at the same time gently touching the bird's head, who responded with a mournful "coo."

For a few days the bird drooped and was quite an invalid: it was more than a week before he ventured beyond the friendly precincts of St. Mark's Square.

But he had learned a lesson which, later on, stood him in good stead, for ever after he took care to fly far above the reach of cruel gunners.

Several weeks after this incident, Paolo himself took the pigeon to Chioggia, some fifteen miles from Venice. However famous this little Italian town may be because of the battle that was fought there in the long ago, between the Venetians and the Genoese, it is now known chiefly as a fishing village and a picturesque spot where artists love to congregate.

On leaving the steamer the old man, not wishing to attract attention, avoided the broad street, with its arcades and cafes, instead picking his way along the canal, packed with fishing craft of every description, until he to a superb white bridge, the pride of the little town.

There he paused, and thinking himself quite away from inquisitive spectators, loosed the bird and stood a few moments watching him speeding his way above the beautiful white arch towards home.

How strong were the graceful wings, and how steady the flight!

It was a warm day in early spring; he threw himself on the bank of the canal grass thinking how pleasant it was on the water's edge. Suddenly a voice sounded in his ears causing him to start visibly:

"Surely, it must be a pleasant occupation to be a pigeon fancier."

The tone was ingratiating, but resenting the intrusion, Paolo looked around and caught an expression that belied the smooth words, and made him instinctively distrust the stranger who had accosted him.

He did not answer, and the man pursued: "No wonder, when you have so fine a bird. May I ask for what particular purpose you are training him?"

"Only for a boy's pleasure," was the short reply. Paolo immediately surmised that this was he of whom Andrea had told him.

As he rose to go, the man went on, still more suavely: "By the way, I have a very special reason why I should like a carrier pigeon." He lowered his voice. "And am prepared to pay any amount for him; will you not set a price?"

Paolo emphatically shook his head. "He can't be bought! I tell you the bird is not for sale!" And with that the old caretaker walked away.

He was troubled, and the remainder of the time before the steamer sailed walked the narrow streets, too much disturbed over the incident to notice the women in the doorways making lace and the children sitting on the ground beside the narrow footpaths, their fingers busy knitting or stringing beads.

He did not know that the Austrian followed him, and that, on reaching the quay, the intruder chose a seat on the other side of the steamer. It is no wonder that the artists go wild over the harbor, dotted as it is with picturesque sails of yellow, blue, or red. Just beyond is Palestrina, equally interesting, and known as the "narrowest town on earth," while a little farther on the steamer skirts along manifold vegetable gardens, in the midst of settlements whose simple homes are gay in their coloring of pink, yellow, red, or white.

By the time the Lido was reached, the sun was low in the heavens, and soon the lagoon was before them, bright in the roseate rays. After this it was not long before Venice came in sight, more lovely than ever in the first twilight.

With a sigh Paolo stretched his limbs, cramped by sitting so long in one position. He was getting old, he reflected, and found even a few hours' excursion tiring in the extreme. As he made his way towards the Piazza, he decided positively that not one syllable would he breathe to the children of his encounter with the Austrian.

"It would only worry them, and what's the use?" he reflected. "It's old Paolo who must guard Chico"—and he shook his head—"I fear it will be a hard thing to do."

At a safe distance the stranger followed until St. Mark's Square was reached. There he concealed himself behind a column and watched to see the location of Chico's nest.

It was so late that the children had gone home, but Andrea had left a folded paper, weighted by a stone, on the window ledge. Opening it Paolo deciphered, without difficulty, the boy's writing.

"Chico reached home at ten minutes to four."

"Bene!" the old man ejaculated, forgetting his fatigue; "he made it in thirty minutes, and it took me all of three hours."

As he reached his rough hand in through the window and touched affectionately the sleeping bird, the Austrian moved from his position and slunk down a side street. He had found out all he wanted, and his malicious expression changed to one of triumph as he muttered:

"I'll have that bird yet, in spite of the old man!"