He shook his head and reached for the aspirin. "As of now," he promised himself, "I'm on the wagon." He seemed to recall a snake too, a seven-headed snake with a gleaming carbuncle in the middle head. _Permanently_ on the wagon! A scraping noise came from above. He listened. The noise occurred again. It seemed to emanate from the tower room on the third floor. He raced up the winding Victorian staircase, on up the narrow stairs to the attic, and stopped. From behind the tower room door, came thin, eerie skirling of bagpipes. "Hey, you in there," he called. "Matey!" boomed Captain Wully's voice. "Come on in." Captain Wully was seated on an old sea-chest, the bagpipes still tucked under his arm. "Hope my practicing didn't disturb you. I play second bagpipe in the banshee band." "But the scraping noise...." "My sea-chest. I had a little trouble getting you home by cockcrow, and I had to move the sea-chest on overtime. I want to say right now it was right decent of you to offer me a home on such short acquaintance. I appreciate it, and I promise to show my--" "Look," said Jerry. "All this time I was being so big-hearted, did I also say I was going to have to sell the house for non-payment of taxes?" "You didn't. If I'd a-known that, I'd put you wise to grabbing Celeste's carbuncle. It's good luck." "It didn't bring _you_ any luck." "I'm not eligible. Employees, relatives etc." "Why can't I get it now?" "Too late. Celeste only materializes once every seven years. Those canvases you mentioned. For sale?" "No bidders, and the critics all agree. Competent draftsmanship, highly finished technique--but carefully unimaginative, middle-class." "The pictures--where are they now?" "Downstairs. I was going to crate them today, and send them to the Art Festival at Northport, but I've got the shakes too bad." Captain Wully pushed back the tam on his head, scratched his balding dome. "I've got it. You catch yourself a nap, matey. I'll crate the pictures for you and batten down the hatches all nice an' ship-shape." * * * * * Jerry Masterson, when he draped himself over the bumpy carvings on the studio love seat, intended to take only a quick forty winks. But the morning was well spent when he awakened, stiff and cramped. Two sturdy crates stood near the door and, from the skylight end of the studio, wafted a rich fragrance of latakia. Captain Wully drew deeply on a Scotch briar filled with Jerry's private blend of tobacco, waved his pipe toward the easel and said, "A right bonnie lass, matey. Your betrothed?" Jerry shook his head dolefully. "Her family are Covered Wagon. You've no idea what that means in a small town like this. My uncle lived here fifteen years and was still a 'newcomer' when he died and left me the house. I've been here two years, but that's a Johnny-come-lately to the Higginses. Her name's Heather, and I doubt if she knows I'm alive."