"Oh, no, she ain't. Gertrude sings coloratura." "_That_ even _I_ don't believe," said Jerry. * * * * * Junior's upper half poised before the easel, and he flourished a brush. "Just a touch about the eyes. And another here." He flicked at the mouth. "Get away from there!" yelled Jerry. Junior burst into tears again. "I was only trying to help. Besides, it did need--" "Well, I'll be...." Jerry looked at the canvas. "Junior was right." "About Gertrude," insisted Captain Wully. "If you don't believe it, why don't you come serenadin' with us, you and Miss Heather?" Jerry looked inquiringly at Heather. "I'll hate myself if I do," she said. "Then we won't go." "But I'll hate myself worse if I don't." He called that evening to take her to the serenade, and met her family. Mr. Higgins was very pleasant. Mrs. Higgins was very pleasant. But Jerry was uncomfortably aware of a large photograph on the mantle. The photograph was of a young man, and it was not pleasant. Its eyes followed Heather Higgins possessively. The photograph's tailored suit intimated its pockets were not lined with tax liens. Mrs. Higgins noticed Jerry's interest. "That's Wesley Tatom." "Of the First National Bank Tatoms," said Mrs. Higgins. "His great grandfather was Ephraim Tatom," said Mrs. Higgins. Ephraim Tatom, so Jerry gathered in the next half hour, had practically blazed the Oregon Trail single-handed. "Wesley is attending the State Bankers Convention right now," said Mr. Higgins. Mrs. Higgins gave Jerry a meaningful look. "We're _very_ fond of dear, sweet Wesley," she said. Jerry was understandably relieved when it came time to depart. As for the serenade, Gertrude was in fine voice. Her words were incomprehensible, but no more so than foreign opera. Captain Wully puffed through _Indian Love Call_ and a pibroch or two on the pipes, ably assisted by Red Skeleton on the glockenspiel and Junior on the mouth-harp. Princess Pocahauntus was impressed by Captain Wully's full dress. She fingered the flowing shoulder plaid, tsk-tsking over the fineness of such a blanket. And the silver buckles--only a big chief would possess such wealth. Gertrude bristled, and Oscar, the werewolf, dashed up with a limp and furry trophy, which he laid at the princess' feet. "What's that?" Heather gasped. "A sidehill gouger," explained Pocahauntus. "See?" * * * * * She put the little animal upright, or as nearly upright as circumstances permitted, for the gouger's left legs were three inches shorter than his right ones. Reaching into her reticule, she produced a couple of artistically carved bone pegs, which she fastened to the abbreviated left legs. "Prosthetics. Relics of our last gouger, who migrated to Switzerland." "Somebody ought to write a book," mused Heather.