Arnaux 
written on waterproof paper, rolled up, and 
lashed to his tail-feathers on the under side. 
He was thrown into the air and disappeared. 
Half an hour later, a second, the Big Blue 
Corner-box, 2600 C, was freighted with a 
letter. He flew up, but almost immediately 
returned and alighted on the rigging. He was 
a picture of pigeon fear; nothing could induce 
him to leave the ship. He was so terrorized 
that he was easily caught and ignominiously 
thrust back into the coop. 
Now the third was brought out, a small, 
chunky bird. The shipmen did not know him, 
but they noted down from his anklet his name 
and number, Arnaux, 2590 C. It meant no- 
thing to them. But the officer who held him 
noted that his heart did not beat so wildly 
as that of the last bird. The message was 
taken from the Big Blue. It ran: 
10 A.M., Tuesday. 
We broke our shaft two hundred and ten miles out 
from New York; we are drifting helplessly in the fog. 
Send out a tug as soon as possible. We are whistling 
one long, followed at once by one short, every sixty 
seconds. (Signed) | THE CAPTAIN. 
82 
