"Trouble is that I'm the fall guy," complained McDowell. "It landed in my lap and now I'm it—expected to unravel it myself or be the laughingstock of the country, Canada, and the affiliations of the Associated Press."
The phone rang, and McDowell groaned. "Some other guy wanting to climb on the wagon with us. Been ringing all morning, from one screwbell or another with theories, ideas, un-helpful suggestions as to how to trap the alien, and so forth. My own opinion is to treat him nice, apologize for our rather fool behavior, and see that he don't take a bad statement home with him. If he tells 'em about us from what he's seen—Hello," he bawled into the phone.
"I am Mrs. Donovan, on Tremont Street. I wanted to report that the fellow with the feathers on his head used to pass my window every morning on his way to work."
"Fine," said McDowell, unconvinced. "Will you answer me three questions?"
"Certainly."
"First, how do you know—seems he never took his hat off?"
"Well, he was large and he acted suspicious—"
"Sure," growled McDowell, hanging up the phone.
He turned again to Doc. "It's been like this. People who think they've seen him; people who are sure they've had him in for lunch, almost. Yet they missed calling about a character growing feathers instead of hair until there's a big fuss—just as though a guy with a head covered with feathers was quite the ordinary thing until he takes a swing at a guy in a saloon."