"Ya-a-s. Carrier pigeons--letters to their l-e-g-s and newspapers under their wings--trained to fly any where you warnt 'em." "Carrier Pigeons," mused the publisher--"Carrier--pigeons trained to carry billets--bulletins and--" "Go frum fifty to a hundred miles an hour!" chimed in the stranger. "True, so they say, very true," continued the publisher, musingly. "Elegant things for gettin' or sendin' noos head of every body else." "Precisely: that's a fact, that's a fact," the other responded, rising from his chair and pacing the floor, as though rather and decidedly _taken_ by the novelty and feasibility of the operation. "You'd have 'em all, Mister, dead as mutton, by a Pigeon Express." "I like the idea; good, first rate!" "Can't be beat, noheow!" said the stranger. "But what would it cost?" "Two hundred dollars, and a small wagon, to begin on." "A small wagon?" "Ya-a-s. Yeou see, Mister, the birds haff to be trained to fly from one _pint_ to another!" "Yes; well?" "Wa-a-ll, yeou see the birds are put in a box, on the top of the bildin', for a spell, teu git the _hang_ of things, and so on!" "Yes, very well; go on." "Then the birds are put in a cage, the trainer takes 'em into his wagon--ten miles at first--throws 'em up, and the birds go to the bildin'. Next day fifteen miles, and so forth; yeou see?" "Perfectly; I understand; now, where can these birds be had?" Putting his thin lips close to the publisher's opening ears, in a low, long way, says the stranger-- "_I've got 'em!_ R-a-l-e Persian birds--be-e-utis!" "You understand training them?" says the anxious publisher. "_Like a book_," the stranger responded. "Where are the birds?" the publisher inquired. "I've got 'em down to the tavern, where I'm stoppin'." "Bring them up; let me see them; let me see them!" "Certainly, Mister, of course," responded the Pigeon express man, leaving the presence of the tickled-to-death publisher, who paced his office as full of effervescence as a jimmyjohn of spruce beer in dog days.