In front of the booth was a post about four feet high, in one side of which the end of a pole about five feet long was fastened so that it worked as if on a hinge. A string was tied to the pole and ran over the top of the post. By pulling the string, the further end of the pole could be raised or lowered by a person in the booth. Further from the booth the top and branches of a small tree had been cut off, leaving a standard twelve feet high, and to this a pole about twenty feet long had been fastened, so that it looked a good deal like a well sweep. The end of the pole pointed toward the hut, but not directly. It slanted a little to one side in order that when the pigeons lighted on the pole we could get a good raking shot at them. Our pigeons had soft pads of leather called boots sewed round each leg to protect them from the strings which we fastened to them. We tied the strings to the boots of a pigeon, sewed a bandage over his eyes, and tied him to the further end of the pigeon stool. This was the stool pigeon. We also called him the flutterer or hoverer. "Now give us the flyers." Amos took out two more pigeons, and we tied long and strong strings to their boots. "Now they're ready. But there's hardly enough string for the long flyer. We ought to let him go up at least forty feet." "Cut a little off the string of the short flyer then, and tie it on to the other. The strings were the same length." We looked round, to see if any pigeons were flying, but none were in sight. "There don't seem to be any about. I'm afraid, Davy, Pigeon Tuesday won't be a success this time." "You wait. They'll be here by and by." "They're f-flying well now. I was f-fishing in Swithin Reed's mill p-pond, yesterday afternoon, and Venus Roe came over and said that Swithin shot a lot of pigeons in the m-morning." [Sidenote: A FLIGHT IN SIGHT] "Venus Roe! Who's she?" "D-don't you know? She's a little n-nigger girl about twelve years old, and belongs to Swithin. Some one in B-Boston gave her to him when she was a baby." "Oh, yes! I remember now. I've heard father tell of meeting Swithin riding out from Boston, with a keg of rum in one saddle bag, and out of the other was sticking the head of a three-year-old nigger." "Here comes a flight. Send up your long flyer, Amos." Amos threw the flyer up. We watched the pigeons. They seemed to be coming toward us. "Now send up the short flyers." "They're coming to us. Pull the flyers down and keep hidden. Pull away at the string, Ben, and work the pole, so that the hoverer will keep his wings fluttering. Keep on, Ben. They see him." The pigeons flew toward the flutterer, made a swirl in the air, and began to light on the pigeon pole. We took up our guns, and as they were hovering about the pole, trying to get a foothold, we fired, and ran out and picked up twenty-nine pigeons. "That isn't bad," said Davy. "I tell you, Pigeon Tuesday is the day. There will be more along soon."