"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:

"Huh! What are you getting red headed about? Can't you stand a joke?"

"I don't like your style of jokes," retorted Greg, stopping the pursuit.
"Don't let me hear any more of 'em."

"In fact, Hen," added Tom, "your continued silence would be the finest
thing you could do for us."

"See here!" called Dan. "This is one of our own pigeons--right out of
dad's cote. This is the speckled one we call 'Tit-bit.'"

"Say, that seems almost like a letter from home, doesn't it?" asked
Dick, his face beaming. "We'll give our friend the best we have. Put the
little fellow in a box, in some soft stuff, not too close to the fire,
Dan. And I'll start to boil some of the corn meal. That'll make good
food for the little chap when he's feeling more like himself."

In less than half an hour Mr. Pigeon was feeling vastly better. He now
hopped about the place, using his wings every now and then in a short
flight. Dan was the only one who could get near the little creature
now. So it was Dalzell who caught the pigeon and fed it its breakfast of
corn meal mush when it was ready.

Soon after the pigeon took to flying more and more. He seemed attracted
towards the windows, flying straight at them three or four times.

"Your pigeon isn't showing good manners, Dan," teased Tom. "He is
showing as plainly as possible that he doesn't like this crowd."

"Most likely it's Hen he objects to," murmured Dalzell, with a grin.
"But I'll tell you what I think Tit-bit wants. He's warm, fed and feels
as strong as ever. What he wants, now, is to hit up a pace for Gridley
and get back into the cote with his mates."

"How long would it take him to get there?" wondered Tom.

"Why, something like ten or twelve minutes, probably," Dan answered.

"Whee! If we could make it that fast we'd be taking frequent trips,"
sighed Reade.

"I wouldn't make the trip more'n one way. I'd stay in Gridley after I
got there," grumbled Hen, but no one paid any heed to him.

"