It is thus that, a few minutes later, a still very wet lady horse returns a now rather damp linen jacket to the roebuck, who accepts it gravely. The suite is viewed by the horse with some mild amusement.

“Yours?”

“Only indirectly, Citizeness Trotter. Our employers are currently enjoying an evening somewhere else on the island. I heard rumours of some kind of musicale mixed with roulette, which seems a curious combination to me. Thus, the facilities are temporarily at my disposal. More to the point, these facilities include a shower supplied with the best hot water that advanced hotel engineering can produce.”

There is a slack-jawed reaction to this on the part of the equine. The roebuck, with a keen eye, raises a paw.

“We emphasize that this is purely voluntary. If you wish, Citizen Jake and I can attempt to bring you to your hotel – I perceive you are not staying here – but as we do not have the lay of the land, I cannot promise that that would be as private.”

There is still some confusion, but matters are cleared up when Phoebe turns to find that the catamount had turned around and has stuck two massive tawny paws over his eyes. Evidently, modesty is foremost in his thoughts.

“If you will lend me your room-key, Citizeness Trotter, I will undertake to fetch a change of clothes. In the meantime, you may rest assured that you will not be interrupted. Our mutual friend is as safe as houses.”

Something in the deer’s manner inspires confidence, and the key is duly passed over. In a twinkling, the door is closing as the mission is being carried out.

Jake, his paws firmly clamped over his eyes, is preserving honour at all costs. This manner, too, inspires confidence, and after some minutes, the sound of a hot running shower can be heard. The catamount views the lacy undergarments and stockings on the floor of the suite with trepidation, and handles them with a delicacy you wouldn’t expect from a fur of his bulk.

The return of the Great Organizer evidences success not only in locating a change of clothes for Miss Trotter, but also for himself. A fresh jacket with equally fresh rose-bud in lapel is now being sported.

“Th’ dame’s nekkid, boss.”

“The usual condition for a shower, Citizen Jake, or so I am informed. No disturbances?”

“Nuh-unh.”

“Splendid. I believe the suite’s iron and ironing board are ready to paw, so if you will take the trouble to fetch me a pillow-case, Citizen Jake, we can attend to the clothes of Citizeness Trotter.”

While the implements are being set up, the thick brow of the feline is furrowed.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“It ain’t right makin’ dames wet, boss.”

“A solid truth, Citizen Jake.”

“Who’d do a dirty crumb-bum thing like dat, boss?”

No answer from the Great Organizer. Ostensibly, this is owing to the testing of the iron, but it may be that there is a certain reticence with regard to the question. It is not pursued by the catamount, who senses disquiet.

Into this domestic scene steps the lady horse, humour and sense of dignity restored by the hot shower. It is quite surprising how much dignity one can project when one is clad only in a pawful of towels, but Phoebe Trotter can carry it out. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a surprise to Stanley Morgan, of course. Then again, perhaps not. We've not enquired.

With a bow, the replacement clothes are indicated by Sergei Ivanovich. He is, judging from the selection, a fur of conservative but good taste. They are not, however, immediately picked up by the equine, who instead seats herself delicately in a chair, much to the consternation of Jake, who immediately whirls around and clamps his paws over his eyes again.

“It’s very nice of you, Sergei, to help me.”

The cool setting of the iron is inspected, and with a practiced eye, careful attention is being paid to the dress.

“It is my pleasure, Citizeness Trotter. I should say, “our” pleasure, as even if Citizen Jake may not be expressing things quite in the standard fashion.”

“It’s all right, Jake. I don’t bite. You can turn around.”

There is much shuffling of paws and reddening of ears on the part of the feline, who meekly complies.

“Candour requires me, Citizeness Trotter, to disclose my ulterior motive in the matter.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. I took in the entire sequence involving your involuntary shower.”

It takes a sharp breath and a gritting of the teeth to bite back the initial reaction from Miss Trotter, who wishes to maintain her ladyfur status. “That no-good, rotten…”

“Princess Moushaska” completes the roebuck.

“You know her?! She’s a real princess?”

“The answer is affirmative on both points, Citizenes Trotter.” The dress is being surveyed with a critical eye, but it is clearly evident that matters are well in paw. “Indeed, I can provide painful testimony on both points.”

“Is that where you leaned to take care of a ladyfur’s clothes?” Miss Trotter’s natural temper is never far from the surface, and this is said with a smile.

“When one is a citizen of the world, one learns all sorts of talents. In point of fact, my familiarity with this procedure long predates my brief, if action-packed, tenure with Her Serene Highness.”

“Did she fire you?”

“Technically, I left of my own volition, though let us say that there was a meeting of the minds on the matter.”

“She’s a horrid wolfess.”

“On that point, I shall not contradict you, Citizeness Trotter. I refer you to a recent comment by Citizen Jake, who alluded to her status as, I quote, a crumb-bum, endquote.”

“You’re very right, Jake.” The warm smile with which this was said, accompanied by a slight shift in seating, resulted in a pair of paws being clamped over the feline eyes again.

“I fear, however, Citizeness Trotter, that this may not be the end of matters.”

“Oh? She’s not a fur to leave things alone?”

“No. I am not a fur to leave things alone.”

A raised eyebrow. “Are you planning on something, Sergei Ivanovich?”

“I emphasize, Citizeness Trotter, that I am planning this item. I have no desire to drag you into something unseemly, ladyfur as you are. This is not a matter to be settled by the famous Marquess of Queensbury Rules.”

“It sure isn’t, Sergei. And you can forget about doing it alone. Count me in.”

The silk dress having been hung up, attention is now being paid to the undergarments. The deer is being uncharacteristically silent. The silence, oddly, is broken by Jake.

“Hey.”

Miss Trotter turns, and smiles again for his benefit.

“You want I should help with dat wolfess, lady?”

An even warmer smile. “I would like that very much, Jake. Sergei? Is it okeh if I borrow Jake?”

A short sigh as stockings are being carefully flattened. “It would appear that in the great exercise of democracy, I am outvoted. I bow to the wishes of the majority. We shall engage in this matter together. But,” and here was raised a small forefinger “it should be clearly understood that there shall be no precipitate action. Or, at least, action of such that would implicate you. Servants are one thing, ladyfurs another. Are we in agreement on that point?”

“Of course, Sergei. And Jake. Of course. Will you pardon me?”

There is a retirement to the bathroom, change of clothes in paw. Perhaps it is all well that only the Great Organizer notes that the catamount peeked through his paws at the disappearing blonde tail just before it was hidden by the door.

Freshly changed, Phoebe Trotter emerges to be presented with her dress on a hangar and certain other garments wrapped in tissue paper. The latter presented by cat to horse, upon orders. His reward: a demure kiss on the cheek.

In the process of horse leaving, deer putting away gear, and cat standing slack-jawed in a daze, none notices that one tissue-paper parcel, contents two stockings, has been left behind on one of the tables.

Of that, more anon.

*****
Harold Tush is a boar caught in a dilemma.

If Xanthippe, his mate, has a successful night at the tables, it is quite likely he will be treated to a detailed, blow-by-blow analysis of the victory. If the laws of chance go against the sow, there is an element of blows in the post-mortem, if one will excuse the word choice.

As Xanthippe Tush has tonight won the munificent sum of 27 pounds, 10 shillings and threepence, the mood in the elevator is noisy, but mercifully that is all there is to it. As a loyal mate, Mr. Tush need only grunt an occasional affirmative. This is sufficient.

We pause to note that Sergei Ivanovich has established cordial diplomatic relations with the hotel staff. This has not only allowed him relatively free access to the linen closets, but has also brought him into the intelligence network that comprises, inter alia, the doorfur. This worthy has duly warned the roebuck of the imminent arrival of his employers.

It is thus that the door to the suite is, with consummate timing, opened to allow Mr. and Mrs. Tush to enter without breaking step. Sergei Ivanovich’s reward is to collect a tossed wrap over his muzzle, courtesy of the accurate aim of Mrs. Tush.

At this, he might count himself lucky, for he now has camouflage, and Jake does not. Caught in the open, he can only shuffle in unease at the withering scrutiny he is undergoing. Owing to his mistress’ good and victorious mood, he gets off lightly with two smacks, one administered to each ear, and an admonition to the effect to wipe the slack-jawed look from his face.

Mr. Trush takes this opportunity to slip, unobserved, into his room. Mrs. Tush, with a final, pithy critique, attacks her bedroom, leaving the field to a catamount rubbing his ears, and a roebuck doing an uncanny imitation of a hall stand, which he is trying to unravel.

“Hey.” This in a protective, hoarse whisper. “Hey, boss…”

The Great Organizer turns, his attention to his colleague, paws now behind back and right eyebrow raised. This is met with a meaty thumb, pointed in the general and presumed direction of Mrs. Tush.

“Lookit, I ain’t ungrateful, really I ain’t, boss, but…”

“You think, after all, the great outdoors, in the form of fresh air and a park bench, may have certain advantages over present circs?”

A slow, mournful nod.

“I hear your cry from the soul, Citizen Jake, and I am not deaf to it. Citizeness Tush is a hard case, to be sure.”

“She as hard as dat Princess dame?”

“There are indeed disturbing parallels, to be sure. I cannot say I find being used as a sentient article of furniture flattering to my ego. Nonetheless. Citizen Jake, I counsel patience. Furthermore, I counsel giving thought to performing useful and uplifting labour that will take you away from our mistress. Might I suggest, tomorrow morning, provision shopping?”

A slow and affirmative nod from the cat. “Chee, I t’ink yer right, boss. Sure t’ing.”

“Very well. In the meantime, let us find somewhere discreet to rest from our labours. Between Her Serene Highness and Citizeness Tush, we may expect vigorous action.”

*****

To an extent, the roebuck is unaccountably wrong, albeit only in the immediate timeline.

At the moment of the return of the Tushes to their suite, the Princess Moushaska was simultaneously enjoying: (1) a leisurely soak in a marble tub filled with soothing bubbles; (2) some classical music being played outside the (locked) bathroom door by a quartet from the crew pulling double-duty; (3) a snifter of Napoleon brandy; and (4) a fine Cuban cigar. With the addition of the soft light from the gas-jets, used only for rare occasions, the contentment of Her Serene Highness is complete.

With this leisure, a plan of operations can be considered in favourable circumstances. Moushaska is familiar with her current financial situation, naturally. Overhead is high, given the needs consistent with the maintenance of status, though it is always possible to defer crew salaries on the grounds of “hard currently conversion issues.” Sometimes, that has the remarkable benefit of being true.

Then there is also the matter of, naturally, the wardrobe. Even if the closets of the Polar Sun would reveal a wide variety of haute couture, one can always stand to freshen one’s wardrobe. It would be well to see what the Spontoons had to offer in this regard. Not as much as Rome, or Alexandra, or especially lovely Shanghai (such wonderful silk and such wonderful prices!), but even a relatively barbaric place can have its surprises.

Still, it would do to find out the stakes they play for in the local houses. If they call the place Casino Island, they have to be good for something in the way of amusement, no?

A brief look down in surprise reminds Her Serene Highness that she neglected to remove her jewelry for the evening. Around her neck, and just above the line of the bubbles, rests her very favourite toy, a sapphire and platinum necklace. It’s almost her signature. Granted, she is not a fur for jewels – clothes are more her line – but what fur can resist something that matches the eyes?

The discovery is met with a full-bodied laugh, a vigorous splash in the tub, and a shout for a merry waltz to be played.