"Sure," snapped McCarthy. "Here!" and he handed Lieutenant McDowell something slightly bloody. It was a bit of skin, to which was attached three tiny feathers. "Just before he bopped me I got me hands in his scalp to see if they wuz real. They wuz, because they came hard and he howled and went madman."
McDowell handed the specimen to Doc. "Examine it, Doc. One, are they real feathers? Two, is that real human skin, and three, is that human blood?"
"That'll take time," said the doctor looking at the bloody bit. "Bet that hurts, though."
"Hurts?" grunted McDowell. "So what?"
"By which I mean that he'll be visiting a doctor or a hospital for treatment. That's no home-remedy job!"
"O.K.," smiled McDowell cheerfully. "Now look, McCarthy. We'll get right on it. You've got your warrant and can prefer charges. Meanwhile there's nothing I can do here. We'll go back to the station and go to work."
"How about the damages?" growled the owner.
"I'm a policeman, not a civil lawyer," returned McDowell. "Take it to court when we catch our—bird."
"A fine force we got," grumbled McCarthy belligerently.
McDowell grunted angrily and turned to O'Leary. "He don't like us," he said.