Part 2

Philip was prepared for this lukewarm support; he had not expected Wrentham to enter upon the plan with enthusiasm, and was aware that men of business would regard it as a mere fancy, in which a good deal of money would be thrown away. But he was confident that the result would justify his sanguine calculations.

‘I am sorry you cannot take a more cheerful view of my project, Wrentham; but I hope some day to hear you own that you were mistaken. We shall begin by buying this land—here is the plan. Then if we get it at a fair price, we shall proceed to erect two blocks of good healthy tenements for working-people. We shall be our own contractors, and so begin our experiment with the men at once. Take the plans home with you, and look them over; and to-morrow you can open negotiations for the purchase of the land.’

Wrentham’s eyes brightened.

‘Ah, that’s better—that’s something I can do.’

‘You will find that there are many things you can do in carrying out the work,’ said Philip, smiling.

The general manager was restored to equanimity by the prospect of a speculation in land. The young enthusiast went his way, contented with the thought that he had taken the first step towards a social reform of vast importance.

The same afternoon the agents for the land in question received a communication from a solicitor inquiring the terms on which it was to be sold.

THE HOMING PIGEON.

BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.

‘Let it off at Leicester, sir.’

My train had already started, when the speaker—an earnest-faced, enthusiastic-looking working-man—breathless with running, leapt on to the step, and after a hurried glance round the compartment, popped a paper bag into my arms and disappeared.

‘Let it off at Leicester?’ What did the man mean? Did he take me for one of the Fenian brotherhood? Had he handed me an ‘infernal machine’ with which to destroy Leicester railway station? I was taken aback for a moment, but only for a moment, for something rustled inside the bag, and I ‘keeked’ in at a corner.

‘You’re there, are you?’ I said _sotto voce_, as the bright, inquiring eye of a blue homing pigeon met my gaze.

The man’s meaning was plain enough now. Leicester was our first stopping-place. I was to throw the bird up there—which I duly did—and knowing the hour the train was due there, its owner could thus judge of its flying powers from the time it took to regain the loft in London.

By many people, it is believed that the homing pigeon is guided in its wonderful flights by some _special instinct_; others think that sight alone is the bird’s guide. In the far-distant past, long before railways, telegraphs, or telephones were dreamt of, pigeons were used to convey intelligence of all kinds from distant quarters; and even in our own day and in times of peace, homing or carrier pigeons are found exceedingly useful as message-bearers in a hundred ways needless to name.

In time of war, their utility can hardly be overrated. The ‘Paris pigeon-post’ of the Franco-German War of 1870-71 is well known. During the siege, when the gayest city in the world was closely beleaguered by the Prussians, and all communication with the outside world was totally cut off, homing pigeons brought to Paris by balloons, found their way back to Tours and other places, bearing with them news of the beleaguered city. How welcome they must have been to the thousands of people who had friends and relatives in Paris at that time! The messages carried by the pigeons were written or printed, then photographed on thin paper, the words being so reduced in size that it required the aid of a powerful magnifier to decipher them. These tiny documents were carried in small sealed quills, carefully fastened to the centre tail-feathers. From the very moment of the arrival of the first homing pigeon, the Paris pigeon-post was firmly established as an institution; and in times of war among all civilised nations, the aërial _voyageur_ will in future doubtless play a most important part.

We have already in England a large number of clubs devoted to pigeon-flying or pigeon-racing; but it is in Brussels that the sport is carried out to the fullest extent. In Belgium alone, there are at this moment nearly twenty-five hundred clubs, and every town, village, or district in the whole country goes in for its weekly race. The birds are sent off on the Friday or Saturday by special trains, and are liberated in clouds of thousands on the Sunday mornings, two, three, four, or even five hundred miles from home.

I know many people in this country who have as their special hobby the breeding and flying of pigeons in a private way, quite independent of clubs—people who never go very far away from home without taking a pigeon or two along with them, to send back with news of their safe arrival, or their success or non-success in matters of business. I had the following told me by a friend, and have no reason to doubt the truth of it. A gentleman of rather shy disposition came down from London to a town not a hundred miles from Warwick, bent on proposing to a young lady, with whom he was greatly in love. She was the daughter of a well-to-do landowner, and a fancier of Antwerp carriers. The Londoner, however, lacked the courage or opportunity of popping the question. He was bold enough, though, before taking leave, to beg the loan of one of his lady-love’s pets, just ‘to tell her of his safe arrival in town.’ The bird returned from London the same day; and in the little quill, it bore to its mistress a message—that, after all, might more simply and naturally have been conveyed by lip—to wit, a declaration and a proposal. A more artful though innocent way of getting out of a difficulty could hardly have been devised. It was successful too.

The homing pigeon of the present day is not only remarkably fond of the cot and scenes around it wherein it has been bred and reared, but fond of its owner as well, and exceedingly sagacious and docile. The power of wing of this bird is very great, and emulates the speed of the swiftest train, over five hundred miles being done sometimes in less than twelve hours.

Now, although, in our foggy and uncertain climate, we can never hope to attain such results in pigeon-flying as they do in Belgium or sunny France, still, the breeding and utilising of these useful birds deserve far more attention than we in this country give them. It is in the hope that some of the readers of this _Journal_ may be induced to adopt the breeding and flying of these pigeons as a fancy or hobby, that I now devote the rest of this article to a few practical hints about their general management.

I should say, then, to a beginner, join a club, by all means, if there be one anywhere near you. If there is not, and you are energetic enough, why, then, start one; or, independent of all clubs, make your hobby an entirely private one. Now, before doing anything else in the matter, you must have a proper loft or pigeonry for your coming pets. This should be placed as high as possible, so that the birds, from their area or flight, may catch glimpses of the country all round, and thus familiarise themselves with it.

The loft should be divided into two by means of a partition with a door in it, each apartment having an outlet to the area in front. The one room is devoted to the young birds, the other to the old. Without illustrations, it is somewhat difficult to describe the area or trap and its uses, but I will try. In its simplest form, then, it is a large wooden cage—with a little platform in front of it—that is fixed against the pigeons’ own private door to their loft. At the back of the cage is a sliding-door, communicating with the loft, and in command of the owner of the pigeons; and another in the front of the cage. It is evident, then, that if you open the back-door, the bird can get into the area from the loft; and if you open the front one as well, he can get out altogether, to fly about at his own sweet will. Returning from his exercise when tired, if both trap or sliding-doors are open, he can pass right through the cage into the loft; if only the front-door is open, he can get no farther than the interior of the cage or area. But independent of these trap-doors, there are two little swing-doors, called bolting-wires—one in front of the cage, and one behind, that is, betwixt the area and the loft. The peculiarity of these swing-doors is this: they are hinged at the top, and open _inwardly_, being prevented from opening outwardly by a beading placed in front of them at the foot. Well, suppose a bird to have just arrived from off a journey, and alighting on the little platform, found the sliding-door shut, it would immediately shove against the door, which would swing open, permitting the bird’s entrance, and at once shut again against the beading, and prevent its exit. In the same way, through the back bolting-wires, a pigeon could enter the area, but could not return to the loft in that way, nor get out through the bolting-wires in front. When a bird returns home from a journey, the exact time of its arrival may even, by a very simple contrivance attached to the external bolting-wires, be signalled to the owner.

The breeding compartment should have around the walls nesting-boxes, I might call them, or divisions, four feet long, two and a half feet high, and about two feet wide; these ought to be barred in front, with a doorway, to put the pigeons through for breeding purposes, and two earthenware nest-pans in each, hidden from view behind an L-shaped screen of wood. In the loft are pigeon-hoppers and drinking-fountains, as well as a box containing a mixture of gravel, clay, and old mortar, with about one-third of coarse salt; the whole wetted and made into a mass with brine.

About twice a week, a bath is greatly relished by the birds; but care should be taken not to leave the floor of the loft damp. Old lime and gravel should be sprinkled about. The food of the homing pigeon is not different from that of any other pigeon, and consists chiefly of beans, small gray peas, with now and then, by way of change, a little wheat, tares, rice or Indian corn. Soft food may sometimes be given also, such as boiled rice or potato, mixed with oatmeal.

The drinking-water should be changed every day, and the fountain frequently well rinsed out. The greatest cleanliness should prevail in the loft. Everything should be clean and sweet and dry, and there should never be either dust or a bad smell. Green food may be given when the birds cannot get out to supply themselves. It should be given fresh, and on no account left about the loft to decay. Never let the hoppers be empty, and see that the grains are not only good, but free from dust as well.

Next as to getting into stock. There are two or three ways of doing this. It is sometimes possible to get the eggs, which may be placed under an ordinary pigeon. Good old birds may be got—a few pairs; but they must, of course, be kept strict prisoners, else they will fly away. The best plan, however, of getting into stock is that of purchasing young birds as soon as they are fit to leave the mother. These must be put in the loft, but not let out for a week or two, although they should be permitted to go into the area and look around them, to get familiar with the place. After some time, they may be permitted to go out and fly around. If good, they will return; if of a bad strain, they are as well lost. But training should not begin until the bird is fully three months old, and strong. The young birds are first ‘tossed’ two or three hundred yards from their loft. If they have already become familiar with their home surroundings, they will speedily get back to the cot. Toss them unfed, flinging them well up in an open space; and repeat this day after day for some time; then gradually increase the distance, to a quarter of a mile, half a mile, and a mile, and so on to five, ten, up to fifty or a hundred miles of railway. The tossing should be done on a fine day, at all events never on a foggy one.

Birds may be sent to station-masters at different distances along the line to be tossed, the basket in which they have been carried being sent back as a returned empty, with the exact time at which the birds were let out marked on the label by the station-master or porter. When this plan is adopted, it is of course necessary to write to the station-master first, and get his permission to send birds to him for the purpose of being tossed.

I have purposely avoided saying anything about the points and properties of homing pigeons; it is good wing you want, more than shape of head or face, although there ought always to be a skull indicative of room for brains. It is wing you want, I repeat, strength, health, and _strain_. Why I put the last word in italics is this: I consider that it is essential to success, and cheapest in the long-run, to breed from a good working strain. The rule holds good in the breeding of all kinds of live-stock. So the reader, if he intends to take up the homing-pigeon hobby, will do well to see that he gets birds of a _good working stock_ to begin with.

A pigeon is not at its best till it is two years of age; care should be taken, therefore, not to attempt too much with them the first year of training. When a bird returns, treat it to a handful of nice grain, or even hemp; but during training, give nothing that is too fattening in large quantities. Great care and attention are required all the year round; exercise should never be neglected; they should be permitted to get out frequently during the day, or indeed, to have their liberty all day, taking precautions against the tender attentions of vagrant cats. The moulting season is a somewhat critical time, and so is the breeding-time; but this class of pigeons is, on the whole, hardy. Treat your birds with universal kindness, and they will certainly reward you.[1]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] [An excellent article on the subject, with drawings of loft, &c., will be found in _The Field_ for 23d Feb. last.—ED.]

A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

To say that there was a ‘sensation’ would feebly describe what followed. Every one in court sprang to his feet. The prisoner looked as if he had seen a ghost. There was a perfect hubbub of voices, as bar and jury talked among themselves, and my brethren at the solicitors’ table poured questions upon me—to none of which I replied. Silence being restored, the voice of the judge—grave and dignified, but with a perceptible tremor—descended like vocal oil on the troubled waves of sound. ‘Who instructs you, Mr Clincher?’

‘Mr Bentley, my lord.’

The judge looked more astonished than ever. My name was familiar enough to him as a judge, and he had known it even better when, as a leading barrister, he had held many a brief from me.

‘I am persuaded,’ said he, ‘that a gentleman of Mr Bentley’s repute and experience has good reason for what he does. But so extraordinary and unheard-of—— I will ask Mr Bentley himself if he really considers that duty requires him to offer himself as a witness, and when and why he came to that conclusion?’

‘My lord,’ I replied, ‘I am certain that, believing what I have had cause to believe within the last five minutes, I should be greatly to blame if I did not testify on oath to certain facts which are within my own knowledge. But if the prisoner chooses to call me as a witness, your lordship will presently understand why it is that, with all submission, I cannot at this moment, or until I am in the box, give my reasons. And I must add that the value of my evidence to the prisoner will greatly depend on his answers to certain questions which I wish, with your lordship’s sanction, to put to him in writing. And if he answers me as I expect, I believe my evidence will put an end to the case against him.’

‘Really, gentlemen of the jury,’ said his lordship, ‘this matter is assuming a more and more remarkable aspect. I hardly know what to say. That a prisoner on trial for his life should answer questions put to him in private by the prosecuting solicitor is the most extraordinary proposal, I am bound to say, which ever came under my notice. It is the more difficult for me to decide because the prisoner has not the advantage of counsel’s assistance.—Prisoner, is it your wish that this gentleman should be called as a witness on your behalf? You have heard what he has said about certain questions which he wishes to put to you beforehand. Of course you are not bound to answer any such questions, and may nevertheless call him. What do you say?’

‘I am in God’s hands, my lord,’ answered the prisoner, who was quite calm again. ‘It may be that He has raised up a deliverer for me—I cannot tell. But I know that if He wills that I should die, no man can save me; if He wills to save me, nought can do me harm. So I am ready to answer any questions the gentleman wishes.’

‘I propose,’ said the judge, ‘before deciding this extraordinary point, to consult with the learned Recorder in the next court.’

All rose as the judge retired; and during his absence I escaped the questions which assailed me from every side by burying myself in a consultation with my counsel. When he heard what the reader knows, he fully upheld me in what I proposed to do; and then threw himself back in his seat with the air of a man whom nothing could ever astonish again.

‘Si-lence!’ cried the usher. The judge was returning.

‘I have decided,’ said he, ‘to allow the questions to be put as Mr Bentley proposes. Let them be written out and submitted to me for my approval.’

I sat down and wrote my questions, and they were passed up to the judge. As he read them, he looked more surprised than ever. But all he said, as he handed them down, was, ‘Put the questions.’

I walked up to the dock and gave them into the prisoner’s hands, together with my pencil. He read them carefully through, and wrote his answers slowly and with consideration. With the paper in my hand, I got into the witness-box and was sworn.

My evidence was to the effect already stated. As I described the man I had seen under the lamp, with my face averted from the prisoner and turned to the jury, I saw that they were making a careful comparison, and that, allowing for the change wrought by twelve years, they found that the description tallied closely with the man’s appearance.

‘I produce this paper, on which I just now wrote certain questions, to which the prisoner wrote the answers under my eyes. These are the questions and answers:

‘_Question._ Were you smoking when you came up to the corner of Hauraki Street?—_Answer._ No.

‘_Question._ Did you afterwards smoke?—_Answer._ I had no lights.

‘_Question._ Did you try to get a light?—_Answer._ Yes, by climbing a lamp at the corner; but I was not steady enough, and I remember I broke my hat against the crossbar.

‘_Question._ Where did you carry your pipe and tobacco?—_Answer._ In my hat.

‘Those answers,’ I concluded, ‘are absolutely correct in every particular. The man whom I saw under the lamp, at eight o’clock on the night of the murder, behaved as the answers indicate. That concludes the evidence I have felt bound to tender.’ And I handed the slip of paper to the usher for inspection by the jury.

‘Prisoner,’ inquired the judge, ‘do you call any other witness?’

‘I do not, my lord.’

‘Then, gentlemen,’ said the judge, turning to the jury, ‘the one remark that I shall make to you is this—that if you believe the story of the prisoner’s witness, there can be little doubt but that the prisoner was the man whom the witness saw at the corner of Hauraki Street at eight o’clock on the night in question; and if that was so, it is clear, on the case of the prosecution, that he cannot have committed this murder. I should not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you that the witness in question is likely, to say the least, to be without bias in the prisoner’s favour, and that his evidence is very strongly corroborated indeed by the prisoner’s answers to the written questions put to him. Gentlemen, you will now consider your verdict.’

‘We are agreed, my lord,’ said the foreman.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ sung out the clerk of arraigns, ‘are you all agreed upon your verdict?’

‘We are.’

‘And that verdict is?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘And that is the verdict of you all?’

‘It is.’

There followed a burst of cheering which the usher could not silence, but which silenced itself as the judge was seen to be speaking. ‘John Harden—I am thankful, every man in this court is thankful, that your trust in the mercy and power of the All-merciful and All-powerful has not been in vain. You stand acquitted of a foul crime by the unhesitating verdict of the jury, and most wonderful has been your deliverance. You go forth a free man; and I am glad to think that the goodness of God has been bestowed on one who has repented of his past sins, and who is not likely, I hope and believe, to be unmindful of that goodness hereafter.—You are discharged.’

Had he been left to himself, I think the prisoner’s old master would have climbed into the dock, with the view of personally delivering his servant out of the house of bondage. But he was restrained by a sympathetic constable, while John Harden was re-conveyed for a short time to the jail, to undergo certain necessary formalities connected with his release from custody. I volunteered to take charge of Mr Slocum, and took him to the vestibule of the prison, overwhelmed during the short walk by thanks and praises. We were soon joined by Harden, whose meeting with his master brought a lump into the throat even of a tough criminal lawyer like myself. I saw them into a cab, and they drove off to Mr Slocum’s hotel, after promising to call on me next day, and enlighten me on certain points as to which I was still in the dark.

As strange a part of my story as any, has yet to be told. I had hardly got back to my office and settled down to read over the various letters which were awaiting my signature, when my late client (Harden’s prosecutor) was announced. I had lost sight of him in the excitement which followed the acquittal. He did not wait to learn whether I was engaged or not, but rushed after the clerk into my room. He was ashen white, or rather gray, and his knees shook so that he could scarcely stand; but his eyes positively blazed with wrath. Leaning over my table, he proceeded, in the presence of the astonished clerk, to pour upon me a flood of abuse and invective of the foulest kind. I had sold him; I was in league with the prisoner. I was a swindling thief of a lawyer, whom he would have struck off the rolls, &c.; until I really thought he had gone out of his mind.

As soon as I could get in a word, I curtly explained that it was no part of a lawyer’s duty to try and hang a man whom he knew to be innocent. As he only replied with abusive language, I ordered him out of the office. The office quieted itself once more—being far too busy, and also too well accustomed to eccentric people to have time for long wonderment at anything—and in an hour I had finished my work, and was preparing to leave for home, when another visitor was announced—Inspector Forrester.

‘Well, Mr Forrester, what’s the matter now? I’m just going off.’

‘Sorry if I put you out of the way, sir; but I thought you’d like to hear what’s happened. The prosecutor in Harden’s case has given himself up for the murder!’

‘What?’ I shouted.

‘He just has, sir. It’s a queer day, this is. When I heard you get up and give evidence for the man you were prosecuting, I thought curiosities was over for ever; but seems they ain’t, and never will be.’

‘How was it?’