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.

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