In a village that looks American Colonial but which is identified as a den of goldsmiths (?), mysterious monster tracks appear in the street one night, followed by a self-advertised monster catcher, Lord Thornton-Berrybush the Third, the next morning. With a show of reluctance, he agrees to trap the creature but the townspeople will have to lay a shiny trail--with their shiny golden bowls. Then Gilly Goodwill, the rag boy, who's already suspicious of the stranger, sees his servants unloading things for making monster tracks and, when the supposed Whicharoo is walking, scares it/them into the waiting trap by bringing a Whicharoo of his own. In reward, he gets the stranger's fancy coach as a replacement for his battered goat cart. A flat patchwork story, neither legend nor Americana, that seems to show only that people aren't as dumb as they used to be (or kids are always smarter than grownups).