THE MAN-COVER*
I
THE flesh of the neck was much swollen, the little legs somewhat stiff; the
eyes wore a sad and tired expression. . . . I am referring to a pigeon. The
swollen neck was hidden by a soft grey down, the legs still held their burden,
the eyes looked ahead—yet the symptoms of fatigue were apparent to a
connoisseur of pigeons.
AndIam that. Once upon a time I was the happy proprietor of hundreds
of carrier-pigeons. Misfortune and a short acquaintance with some faddists
caused me to drown my ennui. I drank most of my pigeons—dozens at the
time—or rather their equivalent in temperance drinks, I ruined my health.
An illness followed, long and painful ; the doctor’s bill took the rest... . . But
let us forget !
Now the pigeon came through my window, stood on the ledge and waited.
It was a carrier, and it had a message. I took the pellucid note from the tube,
and read its short contents, which aroused my curiosity.
“Kidnapped—Prisoner—have written report. Ignore where pigeon goes,
but trust the recipient will read this and send back the pigeon with a note giving
news of England. Are Radicals still in power ? Shall send the letter by return
of carrier. Please fill up tubes with films, Extraordinary adventures !!!”
It was strange and it attracted me. I fed the bird, put a short answer of a
few words—“ Courage. Send message; there areno Radicals”—and a supply of
fresh films in the tubes, and, kissing its head, let it go with a sigh. Then my
luck returned, and I forgot all about it until last week, when the pigeon came
again. It was heavily loaded. I shall not reproduce all the notes, nor the whole
of my correspondent’s letter. I undertake all the responsibilities, and reserve,
in consequence, my editorial right.
* We believe the author of this story to be as mad as his characters.—ED.
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