"Yeah—disturbing the peace. He did that, anyway. And if it's some advertising stunt—this feathers business—I'll have some wiseacre in jail in the morning. Look, O'Leary, I'll meet you at McCarthy's in ten minutes." He hung up the phone and snapped the button on his communicator.
"Doc?" he barked. "Come along if you want to. We've got us a guy wearing feathers instead of hair!"
"Trick," growled the doctor. "Go away. No one can grow feathers instead of hair."
"That's why I want you along. Come on, Doc. This is an order!"
"Confound you and your orders." He hung up angrily, and the lieutenant heard him breaking up the poker game as he snapped his own switch closed.
It was ten minutes to the second when the car pulled up before McCarthy's. O'Leary was already inside, talking to a man holding a chunk of raw beef to his eye.
"Now," said McDowell, entering with the doctor on his heels, "what's this about feathers?"
"Swear it, lieutenant. An' I want the devil clapped in jail where he belongs."
"Sure now," said McDowell in a mollifying tone, "and you can prove them feathers were really growin'?"