The Purple Pterodactyls

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W. Wilson Newbury is younger than I, and he plays a far better game of tennis. Moreover, while I have made my living as a lumberjack, naval officer, teacher, lecturer, and scrivener, he selected his profession soon after leaving college and has remained faithful to it ever since.

Willy is a banker—not one of those faceless fellows who peer out of tellers' windows—but a dark-suited, well-brushed, short-haired type who jockeys a desk behind a row of marble pillars in one of the city's largest banks. And Willy, as all his friends call him to keep him from getting a swelled head, is smart.

Although we are different in many ways, Willy and I, we have always had one thing in common: a lively interest in the occult. And the occult seems to have a strange affinity for Willy.

Just why the esoteric seeks out a conventional, upright family man like W. Wilson Newbury, I cannot imagine; but somehow dwellers from the realms of metaphysical worlds beyond worlds keep tangling up the strands of his life. It may be that whatever prescience or intuition lets him separate a trustworthy loan applicant from a dead beat opens the shutters of his mind wider and makes him more psychically aware than the rest of us; but this gift—or curse—is not something a banker can discuss with the average run of mankind.

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