In truth Mr. Pigeon did seem to be about spent. The poor thing huddled against the sash, as if trying to shelter itself from the biting wind and the fine dust of blown snow.
"Bring the tea-kettle, some one," called Greg, and Dick did so.
"Pour the water on so that I can get the window open," Greg directed. "Just enough to soften the ice so that the sash will move back. Be careful not to let any of the hot water scald the pigeon's feet."
Working gently, in order not to alarm the spent bird, Dick and Greg soon had the window open, and Greg drew in the all but frozen little flyer.
"Say, we can have pigeon stew, or pie, if anyone knows how to make a pie," cried Hen Dutcher.
"You scoundrel!" breathed Greg fiercely. "Your stomach makes a brute of you, Hen Dutcher!"
"Oh, what's the sense of being silly about nothing but just a bird?" insisted Hen.
"I'll fight any fellow who proposes eating this poor little wayfarer," announced Greg.
"Whatcher getting mad about?" snapped Hen. "Pigeons are made just for eating, and we can——"
"Hold this bird, Dan," urged Greg, passing the pigeon to Dalzell and stepping briskly toward Hen, who, alarmed, retreated, protesting: