"Thanks."

"How you take it?"

"Cream and sugar. And Mr. Pinkham, I wasn't aware that there was an alligator problem in Tennessee."

"Some say it's just a crock," Winndrow said without smiling, "and I'm just Winn. Mr. Pinkham was my daddy. And he and his daddy and his daddy's daddy are all resting up there on that yonder hill under those big oak trees. Resting for now, I should say. I don’t know how much longer they'll rest once your nutty friend starts waving that crazy metal detector around."

"I see," said Miss Smithers, smiling.

"Really, I hope he don't get a wild hair and venture off past that hill with all the trees," said Winndrow.

"No, serious," he said. "That's where my property ends--at least now--and where the park property begins. The government down here takes a dim view of anyone who might want to remove pieces of its property, or mess with it for that matter. But smart man that he is, I'm sure the professor knows all that. Plus, he has all those fine maps to keep him straight."

After an hour or so, the morning sun began heating up the porch, so the two of them went inside the trailer to cool off. "How about a picnic?" asked Winndrow. "I could throw some sandwiches together."

"Sounds great," said Miss Smithers. She was beginning to feel more comfortable.

The trailer's kitchen was, in reality, a mere extension of the living room, so while she sat on the sofa, Winndrow began opening cabinets and retrieving items from the tiny refrigerator. On the kitchen side of the sofa was an end-table adorned with an old baseball trophy and a lamp made out of driftwood. The trophy consisted of a tarnished gold batter on top of an unpolished wooden base. In the center of the base was a silver plate with the simple inscription: "Winndrow Pinkham, Dover All-Stars." Part of the bat had broken off, and it gave the effect that the small golden batter was powerfully swinging a billy club.

"Where did the name 'Winndrow' come from? Is it a family name?" she asked.

"Well, sorta," he said. "Both of my parents were orphans--both of their daddies got killed in the First World War. Names were Winston Byrd and Woodrow Pinkham. They were best friends, in life and in death, I guess you could say. Probably seemed natural that their children would get along good enough to stay married. When I came along they couldn't decide which one to name me after, so they split it, and added an extra 'n' somewhere along the way. Spelling wasn't that important, anyway. It was the thought that counts. What about you? Miriam--you got a little Moses in your family?"

She looked up from the trophy quizzically. "I'm not following you. I must have missed something."

"Oh yeah. You missed a childhood of Baptist Sunday School, apparently," Winndrow said, grinning.

A few minutes later, he finished with the preparation of the picnic lunch. He had made baloney sandwiches and had, to his delight, found some sardines and crackers in the cabinet. He took a couple of RCs out of the fridge and after opening them using the handle of the refrigerator, transferred their contents into a large thermos. Winndrow pointed at the red and chrome transistor radio that he had switched on when they first came in from the porch.

"That's the country station in Clarksville," he said. "At night we can pick up WSM. That means on Friday and Saturday nights, we have a front row seat at the Opry.