"Now, surrender yourself," said the brogue. "Go to this Lieutenant McDowell. Explain the error. Tell them that you were afraid, that you'd been hiding because of the ridicule attendant to the feathers on your scalp. Then go to the press and demand satisfaction for their ridicule, libel; throw the book at them. That will get us the publicity we want, and as soon as the thing is explained, people will come in droves. But first you can explain to McDowell—"
"And start now!" exploded McDowell, bursting in angrily. He pointed the business-end of his revolver at them and waved them back. "Sit down," he barked. "And talk!"
"It was him," accused the feather-headed one. "He wanted me to do this—to get into an argument. To get publicity. He can grow hair—I've been as bald as an onion."
"Sure," drawled McDowell. "The jury will decide." He turned to O'Toole. "Are you a doctor?"
"I am not a licensed Doctor of Medicine."
"We'll see if what you are doing can be turned into a charge of practicing with no license."
"I'm not practicing medicine. I'm a follicologist."
"Yeah? Then what's this feather-business all about?"
"Simple. Evolution has caused every genus, every specimen of life to pass upward from the sea. Hair is evolved from scales and feathers evolved also from scales.
"Now," continued O'Toole, "baldness is attributed to lack of nourishment for the hair on the scalp. It dies. The same thing often occurs in agriculture—"