Peter Winn lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closed eyes, deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destined in the near future to make a certain coterie of hostile financiers sit up.  The central idea had come to him the night before, and he was now reveling in the planning of the remoter, minor details.  By obtaining control of a certain up-country bank, two general stores, and several logging camps, he could come into control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shall here be nameless, but which, in his hands, would prove the key to a vastly larger situation involving more main-line mileage almost than there were spikes in the aforesaid dinky jerkwater.  It was so simple that he had almost laughed aloud when it came to him.  No wonder those astute and ancient enemies of his had passed it by.

The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man, weak-eyed and eye glassed, entered.  In his hands was an envelope and an open letter.  As Peter Winn’s secretary it was his task to weed out, sort, and classify his employer’s mail.

“This came in the morning post,” he ventured apologetically and with the hint of a titter.  “Of course it doesn’t amount to anything, but I thought you would like to see it.”

“Read it,” Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes.

The secretary cleared his throat.

“It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address.  Postmark San Francisco.  It is also quite illiterate.  The spelling is atrocious.  Here it is: 

“Mr. Peter Winn, sir:  I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth good money.  She’s a loo-loo ­”

“What is a loo-loo?” Peter Winn interrupted.

The secretary tittered.

“I’m sure I don’t know, except that it must be a superlative of some sort.  The letter continues: 

“Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills and let it go.  If you do I wont never annoy you no more.  If you dont you will be sorry.

“That is all.  It is unsigned.  I thought it would amuse you.”

“Has the pigeon come?” Peter Winn demanded.

“I’m sure I never thought to enquire.”

“Then do so.”

In five minutes the secretary was back.

“Yes, sir.  It came this morning.”

“Then bring it in.”

The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practical joke, but Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon, thought otherwise.

“Look at it,” he said, stroking and handling it.  “See the length of the body and that elongated neck.  A proper carrier.  I doubt if I’ve ever seen a finer specimen.  Powerfully winged and muscled.  As our unknown correspondent remarked, she is a loo-loo.  It’s a temptation to keep her.”

The secretary tittered.

“Why not?  Surely you will not let it go back to the writer of that letter.”

Peter Winn shook his head.

“I’ll answer.  No man can threaten me, even anonymously or in foolery.”

On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, “Go to hell,” signed it, and placed it in the carrying apparatus with which the bird had been thoughtfully supplied.

“Now we’ll let her loose.  Where’s my son?  I’d like him to see the flight.”

“He’s down in the workshop.  He slept there last night, and had his breakfast sent down this morning.”

“He’ll break his neck yet,” Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely, half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda.

Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the pretty creature outward and upward.  She caught herself with a quick beat of wings, fluttered about undecidedly for a space, then rose in the air.

Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparently getting her bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees that dotted the park-like grounds.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Peter Winn murmured.  “I almost wish I had her back.”

But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans in his head and with so many reins in his hands that he quickly forgot the incident.  Three nights later the left wing of his country house was blown up.  It was not a heavy explosion, and nobody was hurt, though the wing itself was ruined.  Most of the windows of the rest of the house were broken, and there was a deal of general damage.  By the first ferry boat of the morning half a dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and several hours later the secretary, in high excitement, erupted on Peter Winn.

“It’s come!” the secretary gasped, the sweat beading his forehead and his eyes bulging behind their glasses.

“What has come?” Peter demanded.  “It ­the ­the loo-loo bird.”

Then the financier understood.

“Have you gone over the mail yet?”

“I was just going over it, sir.”

“Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from our mysterious friend, the pigeon fancier.”

The letter came to light.  It read: 

Mr. Peter Winn, honorable sir:  Now dont be a fool.  If youd came through, your shack would not have blew up ­I beg to inform you respectfully, am sending same pigeon.  Take good care of same, thank you.  Put five one thousand dollar bills on her and let her go.  Dont feed her.  Dont try to follow bird.  She is wise to the way now and makes better time.  If you dont come through, watch out.

Peter Winn was genuinely angry.  This time he indited no message for the pigeon to carry.  Instead, he called in the detectives, and, under their advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot.  Her previous flight having been eastward toward the bay, the fastest motor-boat in Tiburon was commissioned to take up the chase if it led out over the water.

But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she was exhausted before the shore was reached.  Then the mistake was made of putting too little shot on her, and she rose high in the air, got her bearings and started eastward across San Francisco Bay.  She flew straight over Angel Island, and here the motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the island.

That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds.  But there was no explosion.  Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned by telephone that his sister’s home in Alameda had been burned to the ground.

Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time by freight in what had seemed a barrel of potatoes.  Also came another letter: 

Mr. Peter Winn, respectable sir:  It was me that fixed yr sisters house.  You have raised hell, aint you.  Send ten thousand now.  Going up all the time.  Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird.  You sure cant follow her, and its cruelty to animals.

Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten.  The detectives were powerless, and Peter did not know where next the man would strike ­perhaps at the lives of those near and dear to him.  He even telephoned to San Francisco for ten thousand dollars in bills of large denomination.  But Peter had a son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the same firm-set jaw as his fathers, and the same knitted, brooding determination in his eyes.  He was only twenty-six, but he was all man, a secret terror and delight to the financier, who alternated between pride in his son’s aeroplane feats and fear for an untimely and terrible end.

“Hold on, father, don’t send that money,” said Peter Winn, Junior.  “Number Eight is ready, and I know I’ve at last got that reefing down fine.  It will work, and it will revolutionize flying.  Speed ­that’s what’s needed, and so are the large sustaining surfaces for getting started and for altitude.  I’ve got them both.  Once I’m up I reef down.  There it is.  The smaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed.  That was the law discovered by Langley.  And I’ve applied it.  I can rise when the air is calm and full of holes, and I can rise when its boiling, and by my control of my plane areas I can come pretty close to making any speed I want.  Especially with that new Sangster-Endholm engine.”

“You’ll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of these days,” was his father’s encouraging remark.

“Dad, I’ll tell you what I’ll come pretty close to-ninety miles an hour ­Yes, and a hundred.  Now listen!  I was going to make a trial tomorrow.  But it won’t take two hours to start today.  I’ll tackle it this afternoon.  Keep that money.  Give me the pigeon and I’ll follow her to her loft where ever it is.  Hold on, let me talk to the mechanics.”

He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gave his orders in a way that went to the older man’s heart.  Truly, his one son was a chip off the old block, and Peter Winn had no meek notions concerning the intrinsic value of said old block.

Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was ready for the start.  In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cocked and with the safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol.  With a final inspection and overhauling he took his seat in the aeroplane.  He started the engine, and with a wild burr of gas explosions the beautiful fabric darted down the launching ways and lifted into the air.  Circling, as he rose, to the west, he wheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the real start of the race.

This start depended on the pigeon.  Peter Winn held it.  Nor was it weighted with shot this time.  Instead, half a yard of bright ribbon was firmly attached to its leg ­this the more easily to enable its flight being followed.  Peter Winn released it, and it arose easily enough despite the slight drag of the ribbon.  There was no uncertainty about its movements.  This was the third time it had made particular homing passage, and it knew the course.

At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out and went due east.  The aeroplane swerved into a straight course from its last curve and followed.  The race was on.  Peter Winn, looking up, saw that the pigeon was outdistancing the machine.  Then he saw something else.  The aeroplane suddenly and instantly became smaller.  It had reefed.  Its high-speed plane-design was now revealed.  Instead of the generous spread of surface with which it had taken the air, it was now a lean and hawklike monoplane balanced on long and exceedingly narrow wings.

When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received a surprise.  It was his first trial of the new device, and while he was prepared for increased speed he was not prepared for such an astonishing increase.  It was better than he dreamed, and, before he knew it, he was hard upon the pigeon.  That little creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous hawk it had ever seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner of pigeons that strive always to rise above a hawk.

In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher and higher into the blue.  It was difficult, from underneath to see the pigeon, and young Winn dared not lose it from his sight.  He even shook out his reefs in order to rise more quickly.  Up, up they went, until the pigeon, true to its instinct, dropped and struck at what it thought to be the back of its pursuing enemy.  Once was enough, for, evidently finding no life in the smooth cloth surface of the machine, it ceased soaring and straightened out on its eastward course.

A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed, and Winn reefed again.  And again, to his satisfaction, he found that he was beating the pigeon.  But this time he quickly shook out a portion of his reefed sustaining surface and slowed down in time.  From then on he knew he had the chase safely in hand, and from then on a chant rose to his lips which he continued to sing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the rest of the passage.  It was:  “Going some; going some; what did I tell you! ­going some.”

Even so, it was not all plain sailing.  The air is an unstable medium at best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle, he entered an aerial tide which he recognized as the gulf stream of wind that poured through the drafty-mouthed Golden Gate.  His right wing caught it first ­a sudden, sharp puff that lifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened to capsize it.  But he rode with a sensitive “loose curb,” and quickly, but not too quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressed the front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear vertical rudder to meet the tilting thrust of the wind.  As the machine came back to an even keel, and he knew that he was now wholly in the invisible stream, he readjusted the wing-tips, rapidly away from him during the several moments of his discomfiture.

The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, and it was near this shore that Winn had another experience.  He fell into an air-hole.  He had fallen into air-holes before, in previous flights, but this was a far larger one than he had ever encountered.  With his eyes strained on the ribbon attached to the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of color he marked his fall.  Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that old sink sensation which he had known as a boy he first negotiated quick-starting elevators.  But Winn, among other secrets of aviation, had learned that to go up it was sometimes necessary first to go down.  The air had refused to hold him.  Instead of struggling futilely and perilously against this lack of sustension, he yielded to it.  With steady head and hand, he depressed the forward horizontal rudder ­just recklessly enough and not a fraction more ­and the monoplane dived head foremost and sharply down the void.  It was falling with the keenness of a knife-blade.  Every instant the speed accelerated frightfully.  Thus he accumulated the momentum that would save him.  But few instants were required, when, abruptly shifting the double horizontal rudders forward and astern, he shot upward on the tense and straining plane and out of the pit.

At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on over the town of Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costa hills.  Young Winn noted the campus and buildings of the University of California ­his university ­as he rose after the pigeon.

Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief.  The pigeon was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptus presented a solid front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sent fluttering wildly upward for a distance of a hundred feet.  Winn knew what it meant.  It had been caught in an air-surf that beat upward hundreds of feet where the fresh west wind smote the upstanding wall of the grove.  He reefed hastily to the uttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of his flight to meet that upward surge.  Nevertheless, the monoplane was tossed fully three hundred feet before the danger was left astern.

Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winn saw it dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood in a hillside clearing.  He blessed that clearing.  Not only was it good for alighting, but, on account of the steepness of the slope, it was just the thing for rising again into the air.

A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight of the returning pigeon, when he heard the burr of Winn’s engine and saw the huge monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop down upon him, stop suddenly on an air-cushion manufactured on the spur of the moment by a shift of the horizontal rudders, glide a few yards, strike ground, and come to rest not a score of feet away from him.  But when he saw a young man, calmly sitting in the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man turned to run.  Before he could make the corner of the cabin, a bullet through the leg brought him down in a sprawling fall.

“What do you want!” he demanded sullenly, as the other stood over him.

“I want to take you for a ride in my new machine,” Winn answered.  “Believe me, she is a loo-loo.”

The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had most convincing ways.  Under Winn’s instructions, covered all the time by the pistol, the man improvised a tourniquet and applied it to his wounded leg.  Winn helped him to a seat in the machine, then went to the pigeon-loft and took possession of the bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg.

A very tractable prisoner, the man proved.  Once up in the air, he sat close, in an ecstasy of fear.  An adept at winged blackmail, he had no aptitude for wings himself, and when he gazed down at the flying land and water far beneath him, he did not feel moved to attack his captor, now defenseless, both hands occupied with flight.

Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer.

Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses, saw the monoplane leap into view and grow large over the rugged backbone of Angel Island.  Several minutes later he cried out to the waiting detectives that the machine carried a passenger.  Dropping swiftly and piling up an abrupt air-cushion, the monoplane landed.

“That reefing device is a winner!” young Winn cried, as he climbed out.  “Did you see me at the start?  I almost ran over the pigeon.  Going some, dad!  Going some!  What did I tell you?  Going some!”

“But who is that with you?” his father demanded.

The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered.

“Why, that’s the pigeon-fancier,” he said.  “I guess the officers can take care of him.”

Peter Winn gripped his son’s hand in grim silence, and fondled the pigeon which his son had passed to him.  Again he fondled the pretty creature.  Then he spoke.

“Exhibit A, for the People,” he said.