“Fights almost as hard as a bob-cat,” laughed Ed.
“Worse,” declared George, shaking his wounded finger as proof.
The lads eventually got the savage bird wrapped in the garment, but not until Ed had received a nasty scratch from its sharp talons. Using the sleeves of the coat, they managed to tie their struggling captive securely in its folds. Slinging it from the end of a small pole, they set off for the cabin in high spirits.
When they arrived there, they made Ben close the door, and with a shout of triumph they released their prisoner in the center of the room.
“Snowy owl, sure as you’re born,” said Ben, when the bird stood before him.
At his near approach it backed away into a corner, beneath a lower bunk, and he bade them get it out to see if it was badly wounded.
“Not as badly as we are,” laughed George, as he unbound his throbbing finger.
Ed rolled up his sleeve and exhibited the long, red scratch on his arm.
“Heigh!” cried Ben. “Got you, did he?” And he ordered them to wash their wounds with hot water from the kettle.
With the aid of a fish-net he finally got the owl in his grasp, and tenderly examined its wounded wing.