Arnaux 
many miles. Detroit, Buffalo, Rochester, with 
their familiar towers and chimneys, faded behind 
him, and Syracuse was near at hand. It was 
now late afternoon; six hundred miles in twelve 
hours he had flown and was undoubtedly lead- 
ing the race; but the usual thirst of the Flyer 
had attacked him. Skimming over the city 
roofs, he saw a loft of Pigeons,and descending 
from his high course in two or three great cir- 
cles, he followed the ingoing Birds to the loft 
and drank greedily at the water-trough, as he 
had often done before, and as every pigeon- 
lover hospitably expects the messengers to do. 
The owner of the loft was there and noted the 
strange Bird. He stepped quietly to where he 
could inspect him. One of his own Pigeons 
made momentary opposition to thestranger, and 
Arnaux, sparring sidewise with an open wing 
in Pigeon style, displayed the long array of 
printed records. The man was a fancier. His 
interest was aroused; he pulled the string that 
shut the flying door, and in a few minutes Ar- 
naux was his prisoner. 
The robber spread the much-inscribed wings, 
read record after record, and glancing at 
95 
