Part 2

Jerry was sure of only one thing. He'd never painted any picture of Gertrude. There was, however, the matter of that tube of bice green squeezed in the middle, and the gamboge left capless. He ran to the stairwell and yelled for Captain Wully, who presently appeared.

"I have here a letter--"

"I didn't do it," Captain Wully protested. "'Twas Junior touched up the paintings. And 'twas Junior painted Gertrude. Me? All I did was help Junior dry the paint and boost your prices a wee muckle."

"How much?"

"By nothing at all, you might say. A zero on the end?"

Jerry looked at the check. "I feel like I've been obtaining money under false pretenses. Junior doesn't even get any credit."

"But he does. Every one of those paintings was signed 'J. Masterson-Junior.'"

"I feel more honest about banking the check," said Jerry.

When he made out his deposit slip and totaled his bank balance, Jerry reflected how quickly an inferiority complex can melt in financial sunshine. He made a brief stop at the post office, where he mailed a check to the county assessor. He then headed straight for Heather Higgins' front door.

She had company.

"Glad to know you." Jerry acknowledged introduction to Wesley Tatom and stared with helpless fascination at the latter's necktie--of MacGreggor plaid.

"You arrived just in time to give me a little moral support," said Heather breathlessly.

"Now, Heather, we mustn't bore Masterson with our personal difficulties."

"I've started a story about Oscar the werewolf, but Wesley thinks--"

Wesley interrupted. "I'm looking at it from a business standpoint. Some day I'll step into my father's shoes at the bank. And what would the Board of Directors think of a bank president's wife who wrote claptrap about werewolves and spare-rib glockenspiels?"

"I doubt if they'd think anything at all--particularly if it paid well," said Jerry, and stared at Wesley Tatom's tie. The knot had begun to ease gently.

"If she thinks she wants to write, why can't she stick to covered wagons, and--"

"How stuffy of you!" said Heather.

Wesley Tatom felt uncertainly of his tie, tightened the knot.

"As a matter of curiosity," Jerry addressed his rival, "what makes you so sure Heather is going to marry you?"

"It's one of those taken-for-granted matters. We've gone together since--_say!_ What business is it of yours, anyway!"

Now Heather, too, was watching Wesley's necktie.

"I don't think women like to be taken for granted," Jerry said.

One end of the necktie became longer and longer as its opposite end shortened. With a final but quiet jerk, the necktie came free, hesitated for a moment opposite Wesley's belt buckle, then folded itself neatly and floated away.

Heather giggled. "Were you laughing at me?" Wesley demanded,

"Heather," said Jerry, "will you marry me?"

In the free-for-all that followed, nobody settled anything.

* * * * *

All that occurred some time ago, of course. Meanwhile, what collector hasn't heard of J. Masterson-Junior, whose canvases are lauded for their "other world" quality? And, if you have children, you probably know by heart the little book chronicling the fortunes and misfortunes of Oscar, the werewolf who fainted at the sight of blood. And there's Harriet, the hodag. And Gary, the stone-eating gyascutus. And Robert, the sidehill gouger.

Recently in print is a story of Oscar's love for Vi, the Vitiated Vampire.

Mr. and Mrs. Jerry Masterson are widely respected. She writes the books. He illustrates them in his spare time. Such a delightfully zany couple! Always joking about a Scottish sea captain who lives in the attic and is married to an Indian princess.

No wonder the Masterson children are overly imaginative--warning their playmates not to sit on Gertrude, not to step on Oscar's tail. But all kids go through a phase like that. Only a few of them are lucky enough to grow up and make money out of it--lots of highly respectable money--like the Mastersons.