"Leave me alone," pleaded the elderly gentleman. "Lemme concentrate."

Captain Wully dashed in. "For shame, Junior. Stealing!"

Junior's eyes filled with tears. "Just one more nip, and I know I could have relaxed enough to finish materializing."

Heather's fascinated gaze wavered between the bottomless Junior and Captain Wully's kilt. The kilt had a zipper placket exactly like a lady's skirt. "I think I'm losing my mind," she said.

Jerry Masterson attempted to explain the inexplicable. He recounted events of the preceding several days and concluded, "No matter what you think, you couldn't see him if you didn't believe."

"What about the glockenspiel?" she asked weakly.

"That's Red Skeleton," said Captain Wully. "He uses a couple of ball-peen hammers on his ribs. We was tunin' up to serenade Pocahauntus."

"The cat," said Heather. "She's left out."

"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."

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