There is a lively discussion going on between two groups of firefighters just outside station 24. The discussion centers on those pesky pigeons that inhabit the neighborhood.
Pigeons are landing in the middle of the street and then taking off at the last instant before being struck down by passing cars. One group of firefighters is proclaiming loudly that you can drive down the street at sixty miles an hour and still not be able to hit one of the pigeons sitting in the middle of the street. About this time, as if on cue a passing car, speeding by, strikes one of the pigeons as it attempts to flee the street. Feathers fly and the now luckless pigeon flies straight up in the air about twenty feet and then does a swan dive into a pile of dirt by the side of the road. At arrival back on terra firma he is dead as a doornail.
Pigeons are landing in the middle of the street and then taking off at the last instant before being struck down by passing cars. One group of firefighters is proclaiming loudly that you can drive down the street at sixty miles an hour and still not be able to hit one of the pigeons sitting in the middle of the street. About this time, as if on cue a passing car, speeding by, strikes one of the pigeons as it attempts to flee the street. Feathers fly and the now luckless pigeon flies straight up in the air about twenty feet and then does a swan dive into a pile of dirt by the side of the road. At arrival back on terra firma he is dead as a doornail.
There is dead silence for a moment and then the catcalls and the hooting start from the group of firefighters who, up to this moment, had little to argue about. The other group retreats into the station to get away from their jeering comrades. Their only salvation is the loud clanging of the call bell.
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