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On the way to the Long Bar, the roebuck expresses interest.
“I am curious, Citizen, as to your profession. Are you of that strata known as the “leisure class,” or do you actually work for a living?”
“Eh? Oh. Oh, I’m a publisher.”
“Ah? Of what, if I may enquire?”
“Well, magazines. All sorts of different ones. We publish some adventure magazines, some sports magazines, some that deal with matrimonial advice…” Here, there was a shudder, which indicated that Mr. Tush did not read those parts of his publishing empire, whether for good or for evil, it’s hard to say. “Oh, yes, and the Nursery Weekly, that’s our biggest seller.”
“Gee! Them puzzles are pretty swell. I like the ones with the colours.”
A surprised look from the roebuck is met with an outthrust chin of defiance.
“Hey! It’s clean stuff.”
“I’m sure, Citizen Jake. Quite sure. It is well that the adventure magazine material and Nursery Weekly’s material does not get mixed up in the composition room. Though it would bring joy to my dark Slavic heart to see Blake Buck, Guardian of the Planets, attempt to find the daisy in the centre of a maze. You should look into such crossover opportunities, Mr. Tush. Shake your readers out of their complacency.”
The doors to the Long Bar from the Prom are opened, and a beeline is made for the bar. “Complacency, fiddlesticks. It’s all the bloody same. Haven’t seen a lick of anything fresh in months. Take artwork. Every last thing I see is, I swear, Socialist Realism. Even some of the artwork being done for Nursery Weekly. I’ve got a portfolio upstairs. There’s a real beaut in there of the cutest little squirrel kit you’ve ever seen, striding confidently into the future with a sand-bucket and spade.”
“I see. And yet, you pass on them.”
An incredulous look, briefly interrupted by the first, calming sip of whisky. “Hell, no. Xani does. It’s my father-in-law’s money that started up the magazines, and she’s the one that picks everything, down to the jokes in Nursery Weekly.”
“Hey! Them jokes is pretty funny. Knock, knock!”
A pained squeal from the boar interrupted this effort at a recitation, much to the relief of Sergei Ivanovich. “We yield to your in-depth knowledge, Citizen Jake, and move on. Speaking of moving on, I would recommend, Citizen Tush, that you move to quieter pastures. May I suggest, perhaps, a water-taxi tour of the lagoon? Highly recommended in this morning’s newspaper, and as I perceive the bartender has a vacuum flask in his paw and a knowledgeable gleam in his eye, you will not die of thirst.”
Mr. Tush rapidly agreed that such a course of action would be soothing to his nerves, and within a few minutes, after the dispensing of a modest amount of expense money to the Great Organizer & Co., peace descended on the Long Bar.
“Hey, boss?”
“Hmmm?”
“How come you vamoosed when dat wolf dame showed up?”
An eyebrow raise. “You noticed?”
“Uh-hunh. Miz Tush didn’t, I t’ink. How come?”
A grave look descends upon the cervine muzzle. “Let us merely say, Citizen Jake, that at the current stage of affairs, it would be greatly inconvenient for Her Serene Highness the Princess Moushaska to know of my whereabouts.”
The catamount attempts to parse this, and fails. This failure is visible, largely owing to quivering eyebrows.
“In short, Citizen Jake, it is incumbent upon me to, as you so eloquently put it, vamoose. Speaking of which, as we have some expense money in my paw, what do you say to the idea of a late lunch?”
A placid look of joy crossed the cat’s face, accompanied by a vigorous nodding of the head. (This in spite of the two cheeseburgers consumed earlier.)
“Very well. I am sure that there are purveyors of that unique foodstuff known as the Hamburger Sandwich thereabouts. I, myself, shall settle for a vegetable four-way. We’ll stop by the newsstand, first.”
“How come, boss?”
“A perusal of the offerings of Mr. Tush’s…or is it Mrs. Tush’s?...empire may prove enlightening. I’m sure that august journal Nursery Weekly is available. All good newsstands should have it.”
The emporium selected by the Great Organizer for a meal that was both relatively cheap and discreet bears the somewhat mysterious name of “Papadopolous’ Polynesian Poi Palace.” Continuing the theme of mystery, there is a smell that is not quite definable as the door is pushed open, to reveal a battered zinc counter, stools that are not quite level, and flatware that doesn’t quite match.
At this hour of the afternoon, past the lunch rush, there is only one fur seated at the counter, an equine dressed in a mixture of thrift and self-pride. The shirt and trousers have obviously seen long service, but their owner has kept a watchful eye on their condition, and the result is something that can be worn in public, at least to places like PPPP, where the management is not nearly as fussy as that at L’Etoile d’Argent.
The horse’s perusal of the menu, which is a lingering one with forefinger carefully poised over the prices, is interrupted by Sergei Ivanovich, who is indicating the stool next over.
“Pardon me, Citizen, but would you object if my colleague here occupies this seat? It would be appear to be the only structurally sound --- ah!”
Stanley Morgan has turned, and there is mutual recognition, accompanied by a bow from the roebuck.
“Hollywood is still incorrect in its depiction of the costume of the natives, but it is good to see that you are at home in circles high and low.”
A grin from the horse. “Well, it’s good to see that you’re at home in dry clothing, too. I guess you did find that hotel?”
A fastidious wiping of the top of a stool causes a momentary delay in answering. “Hmmm? Yes, the venture was highly successful. Among other things, I located my staunch ally flanking you. But where are my manners? I have not introduced myself, let alone my colleague. I am Sergei Ivanovich, and my colleague is Jake.”
“Hey.” This somewhat distracted, as the cat is eyeing a fly-specked glass pie stand with a dessert of unknown age.
“I’m Stanley Morgan. Glad to meet you, Sergei.”
“The feeling is mutual, Citizen Morgan. Have you ordered?”
“Well, I was just looking things over…” Morgan, honest fur that he is, cannot hide the fact that his ears are flattened, and that there is a certain sense of embarrassment. It is alleviated by the menu being extracted from his paws and tossed lightly aside by Sergei Ivanovich.
“As an old campaigner, you will permit me to do the ordering. More to the point, I am the one temporarily in funds. And, as a brother vegetarian, you may place reliance on me.”
“Hey.”
“Fear not, comrade, I am sure they serve carnivores here, given mein host. Greetings, Citizen!”
A somewhat disheveled tabby-cat in a spotted undershirt, grease-catching trousers and cigarette is watching the roebuck with a fascinated air. It is not often that furs in neatly pressed linen suits with rosebuds in their lapel brighten the doors.
“Hey, what you want, hanh? No champagne, no caviar, yes? Ha, ha!” He is not without his sense of humour, though it is clear he is insinuating that certain activity known as “slumming” to Sergei Ivanovich.
“As a staunch member of the working class, Citizen, I have no interest in such trifles. For myself and my equine friend here, a bowl each of your tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Do keep your thumb-claw out of the soup, please. For the large tawny gentlefur yonder…yes, one dozen fish sliders. And I perceive that you have that charming notion as the “bottomless cup of coffee,” which all three of us will indulge in.” Seeing the cat still looking at the pie-stand, the order is amended to add three wedges of pie.
While there are some furs, particularly those in Paris, that believe that food and good conversation are as natural a combination as the soup and grilled cheese that has been ordered, the Great Organizer has the wit to observe that neither the cat nor horse have anything on their mind but the enjoyment of their meal. It is thus that intellectual stimulus must come for the roebuck from a leisurely study of ancient and yellowing posters of the joys of Athens and Salonika.
A stentorian belch from Jake, and a creak in the stool from Stanley, announce that the entrees are disposed of, doing justice to the cuisine of the establishment. The bill is settled, with great gravity, by Sergei Ivanovich as the pie is delivered. Two shillings sixpence, including tip. The notion of a tip appears to confuse the owner, who wanders off, muttering in Greek.
“Listen, how much is my share…?”
“I will not hear of it, Citizen Morgan. You have done a good turn to me, and in turn, the debt shall be repaid.” A wince and a confused belch. “I think I shall owe a cock to Asclepius, too. I should have borne that warning of that undershirt in mind. But please excuse such a distressing topic. To move on: it would interest me, Citizen, as to an explanation of the sharp difference in sartorial standards from our previous meeting to today. I refer to those articles of clothing known collectively as the “soup and fish.””
“Oh, that.” A moody stirring of the coffee, followed by a sigh. “Girlfriend issue, I’m sorry to say. Well, it will soon be over.”
An eyebrow raise. “Why the defeatist attitude, Citizen? Is this affection and show of heart not reciprocated?”
“Hey.”
A brief turn to the cat, who has reached over and confiscated, without opposition, the roebuck’s wedge of pie. “Is the dame sweet on youse?”
“Well, yes, Phoebe and I do love each other.”
The jaw of the catamount creaks open, but in the blessed interval between generation of thought and utterance, the Great Organizer slides his wedge of pie, distracting the cat.
“Ah! We progress, and can put a name to Love. There is some sort of obstacle, then, to the full realization of happiness?”
“Two obstacles. Money and a rival.” While initially puzzling, Stanley finds himself willing to confide in the roebuck fully and completely. The latter tilts his head, swiveling an ear.
“Yet you do not seem to blame this Phoebe. More to the story?”
“It’s her family, really, not her. I can’t say I blame them…” Through two cups of coffee, and the remaining pie, the situation is laid before the Great Organizer. The cat remains silent, having received at one point the Warning Eye from the deer to remain silent.
“And so Citizen von der Wald is due in the near future to arrive, sweep Citizeness Trotter off her hooves, and ride off into the sunset, or at least Park Avenue?”
“That’s about the size of it. Look, don’t get me wrong: Phoebe isn’t a gold-digger by any stretch…”
“She don’t sound like one.” A surprising insight from the catamount, which is met with brief curiosity from the roebuck (luckily, the observation is discreet).
“Citizen Jake, over there, is a surprising font of earthly wisdom. But he has a point, and one with which I am in agreement. Circumstances, as well as family feeling, are against you.”
A rueful nod from Stanley, and a long pull at the coffee.
“Hey.” With no response from the horse, the catamount repeats himself, accompanied by a soft punch to the shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hmmm?”
“You oughta ask ‘im t’help youse. He’s smart.” A meaty forefinger, stained with berry pie, indicates Sergei Ivanovich.
“What? Well…well, heck, I can’t go around imposing myself on any old fur…”
“He ain’t old. He’s sorta…”
“We shall omit particulars, Citizen Jake. I am a citizen of the world without documents, and we shall leave things at that. Nevertheless, and once again, my colleague is a surprising font of wisdom. He has looked into my soul, and finds that my sense of justice is awakened. I have nothing against Citizen von der Wald – I am sure that he is not red in tooth and claw. Though if he wears a tall silk hat, I reserve the right to change my mind. Furs who wear tall silk hats deserve whatever they get. Where was I? Ah, yes. I have nothing against Citizen von der Wald, but your plight moves me.”
The trio moves out into the late afternoon sunshine.
“Where is Citizeness Trotter staying?”
(At this point, Jake is puzzled, since he believes the roebuck is already in possession of such knowledge. The oddness of the moment is put down to Genius, and left at that.)
“She’s staying at the Marleybone, just up the Prom, there.”
“Ah. Citizen Jake and your humble interlocutor are staying at Shepherd’s, in the train of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Tush.”
The roebuck’s arm is gripped firmly. “Wait a minute. Who?”
“Harold Tush. You know Citizen Tush? More to the point, you know Citizeness Tush? In the case of the latter, you have my sympathies. I myself have only just met her, but I have had sufficient.”
“He’s the publisher, right?”
“Fame is not fleeting, it would appear. Indeed, he is the publisher of the Nursery Weekly, the number from two weeks ago I herewith present. The leader is a stirring ode to firefighters, a worthy profession that I admire. Consider: “The firefighter is strong. He can carry a fur out of the fire when they can’t move.” Pithy and to the point, Citizen Morgan, and something that the New York Times or Le Monde ought to emulate.” A squint at the magazine, and a puzzled air. “I cannot say that I approve of the layout of this drawing. Surely, a firefighter carrying a fur at such an angle would do something terrible to their back.”
The professional in Stanley Morgan is aroused, and with an exchange of courtesies, the magazine is handed over, with the horse extracting a 2B from a shirt pocket. Within a minute, there emerges in the margins of the magazine a firefighter who most likely is not headed for an interview with a chiropractor.
“A great deal of skill, Citizen, and the work of an expert.”
“Listen, Sergei…I know I’m already into you for a big favour, but can you…?”
A magisterial paw is raised. “Say no more, Citizen. I shall add it to my list. Somehow, some way or another, this fits into the grand scheme of things.” The paw is then extended to seal the matter in a shake, and it is done.
“HEY!”
A brief glance shows that this interjection, contrary to experience, has not come from Jake, but from a sow of awful familiarity, striding at a very rapid pace down the Prom. With a brief murmur of thanks, the horse exercises his species’ fabled common sense and quietly clops away, and just in time, too.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”
“Jake and I have been on our meal break, and…”
“Who told you that you could lollygag about?”
A gentle cough of injured pride. “With respect, your husband had supplied us with some expense money…”
“No doubt spent on booze.” The outraged wiggle of eyebrows this sparks is ignored. “Where’s my car?”
“Car, madame?”
“Car. C-A-R. Car. The thing intelligent furs use to get about.”
“Intelligent furs or no, madame, you will perceive that the roads here do not readily accommodate motor-cars. You will…”
“And how am I supposed to get about and do some shopping? Walk?”
Behind her back, the catamount is appraising his employer’s spouse. From his vantage point, it is obvious that a programme of brisk exercise would do no harm to Mrs. Tush, and would benefit all. Prudence, however, counsels silence.
“I believe if you enquire at the concierge’s station, you will find that I have engaged a ricksha for you.”
“A what?”
“Ricksha. R-I-C…”
“I KNOW HOW TO SPELL IT! You want me to ride in a ricksha?”
“Owing to the shortage of howdahs, it would appear to be the best course, madame.”
“What, is a little runt like you going to pull it? Or this big lummox over here?”
“The hiring of a ricksha, madame, also includes within the cost the engagement of a professional, a fur who knows his business.”
“Well, have it ready in twenty minutes. I’m going up to change. I’m meeting the Princess for some shopping…what’s that look for?”
“Nothing, madame, you were saying?”
“Have that ricksha ready in twenty minutes, and if he’s just ten seconds late, I’ll use your head for a spindle, got it?” And with that, there is an angry turn of the trotter, and soon blessed silence falls again.
“Dat’s one tough dame, boss.”
“I, personally, find the notion that she is being pally with the Princess Moushaska to be deeply troubling. No good can come of hanging around with such company, Citizen Jake. Nevertheless, let us fulfill our duties to our master and mistress, and make sure the ricksha is engaged. And that the driver is sufficiently warned.”
“I am curious, Citizen, as to your profession. Are you of that strata known as the “leisure class,” or do you actually work for a living?”
“Eh? Oh. Oh, I’m a publisher.”
“Ah? Of what, if I may enquire?”
“Well, magazines. All sorts of different ones. We publish some adventure magazines, some sports magazines, some that deal with matrimonial advice…” Here, there was a shudder, which indicated that Mr. Tush did not read those parts of his publishing empire, whether for good or for evil, it’s hard to say. “Oh, yes, and the Nursery Weekly, that’s our biggest seller.”
“Gee! Them puzzles are pretty swell. I like the ones with the colours.”
A surprised look from the roebuck is met with an outthrust chin of defiance.
“Hey! It’s clean stuff.”
“I’m sure, Citizen Jake. Quite sure. It is well that the adventure magazine material and Nursery Weekly’s material does not get mixed up in the composition room. Though it would bring joy to my dark Slavic heart to see Blake Buck, Guardian of the Planets, attempt to find the daisy in the centre of a maze. You should look into such crossover opportunities, Mr. Tush. Shake your readers out of their complacency.”
The doors to the Long Bar from the Prom are opened, and a beeline is made for the bar. “Complacency, fiddlesticks. It’s all the bloody same. Haven’t seen a lick of anything fresh in months. Take artwork. Every last thing I see is, I swear, Socialist Realism. Even some of the artwork being done for Nursery Weekly. I’ve got a portfolio upstairs. There’s a real beaut in there of the cutest little squirrel kit you’ve ever seen, striding confidently into the future with a sand-bucket and spade.”
“I see. And yet, you pass on them.”
An incredulous look, briefly interrupted by the first, calming sip of whisky. “Hell, no. Xani does. It’s my father-in-law’s money that started up the magazines, and she’s the one that picks everything, down to the jokes in Nursery Weekly.”
“Hey! Them jokes is pretty funny. Knock, knock!”
A pained squeal from the boar interrupted this effort at a recitation, much to the relief of Sergei Ivanovich. “We yield to your in-depth knowledge, Citizen Jake, and move on. Speaking of moving on, I would recommend, Citizen Tush, that you move to quieter pastures. May I suggest, perhaps, a water-taxi tour of the lagoon? Highly recommended in this morning’s newspaper, and as I perceive the bartender has a vacuum flask in his paw and a knowledgeable gleam in his eye, you will not die of thirst.”
Mr. Tush rapidly agreed that such a course of action would be soothing to his nerves, and within a few minutes, after the dispensing of a modest amount of expense money to the Great Organizer & Co., peace descended on the Long Bar.
“Hey, boss?”
“Hmmm?”
“How come you vamoosed when dat wolf dame showed up?”
An eyebrow raise. “You noticed?”
“Uh-hunh. Miz Tush didn’t, I t’ink. How come?”
A grave look descends upon the cervine muzzle. “Let us merely say, Citizen Jake, that at the current stage of affairs, it would be greatly inconvenient for Her Serene Highness the Princess Moushaska to know of my whereabouts.”
The catamount attempts to parse this, and fails. This failure is visible, largely owing to quivering eyebrows.
“In short, Citizen Jake, it is incumbent upon me to, as you so eloquently put it, vamoose. Speaking of which, as we have some expense money in my paw, what do you say to the idea of a late lunch?”
A placid look of joy crossed the cat’s face, accompanied by a vigorous nodding of the head. (This in spite of the two cheeseburgers consumed earlier.)
“Very well. I am sure that there are purveyors of that unique foodstuff known as the Hamburger Sandwich thereabouts. I, myself, shall settle for a vegetable four-way. We’ll stop by the newsstand, first.”
“How come, boss?”
“A perusal of the offerings of Mr. Tush’s…or is it Mrs. Tush’s?...empire may prove enlightening. I’m sure that august journal Nursery Weekly is available. All good newsstands should have it.”
The emporium selected by the Great Organizer for a meal that was both relatively cheap and discreet bears the somewhat mysterious name of “Papadopolous’ Polynesian Poi Palace.” Continuing the theme of mystery, there is a smell that is not quite definable as the door is pushed open, to reveal a battered zinc counter, stools that are not quite level, and flatware that doesn’t quite match.
At this hour of the afternoon, past the lunch rush, there is only one fur seated at the counter, an equine dressed in a mixture of thrift and self-pride. The shirt and trousers have obviously seen long service, but their owner has kept a watchful eye on their condition, and the result is something that can be worn in public, at least to places like PPPP, where the management is not nearly as fussy as that at L’Etoile d’Argent.
The horse’s perusal of the menu, which is a lingering one with forefinger carefully poised over the prices, is interrupted by Sergei Ivanovich, who is indicating the stool next over.
“Pardon me, Citizen, but would you object if my colleague here occupies this seat? It would be appear to be the only structurally sound --- ah!”
Stanley Morgan has turned, and there is mutual recognition, accompanied by a bow from the roebuck.
“Hollywood is still incorrect in its depiction of the costume of the natives, but it is good to see that you are at home in circles high and low.”
A grin from the horse. “Well, it’s good to see that you’re at home in dry clothing, too. I guess you did find that hotel?”
A fastidious wiping of the top of a stool causes a momentary delay in answering. “Hmmm? Yes, the venture was highly successful. Among other things, I located my staunch ally flanking you. But where are my manners? I have not introduced myself, let alone my colleague. I am Sergei Ivanovich, and my colleague is Jake.”
“Hey.” This somewhat distracted, as the cat is eyeing a fly-specked glass pie stand with a dessert of unknown age.
“I’m Stanley Morgan. Glad to meet you, Sergei.”
“The feeling is mutual, Citizen Morgan. Have you ordered?”
“Well, I was just looking things over…” Morgan, honest fur that he is, cannot hide the fact that his ears are flattened, and that there is a certain sense of embarrassment. It is alleviated by the menu being extracted from his paws and tossed lightly aside by Sergei Ivanovich.
“As an old campaigner, you will permit me to do the ordering. More to the point, I am the one temporarily in funds. And, as a brother vegetarian, you may place reliance on me.”
“Hey.”
“Fear not, comrade, I am sure they serve carnivores here, given mein host. Greetings, Citizen!”
A somewhat disheveled tabby-cat in a spotted undershirt, grease-catching trousers and cigarette is watching the roebuck with a fascinated air. It is not often that furs in neatly pressed linen suits with rosebuds in their lapel brighten the doors.
“Hey, what you want, hanh? No champagne, no caviar, yes? Ha, ha!” He is not without his sense of humour, though it is clear he is insinuating that certain activity known as “slumming” to Sergei Ivanovich.
“As a staunch member of the working class, Citizen, I have no interest in such trifles. For myself and my equine friend here, a bowl each of your tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Do keep your thumb-claw out of the soup, please. For the large tawny gentlefur yonder…yes, one dozen fish sliders. And I perceive that you have that charming notion as the “bottomless cup of coffee,” which all three of us will indulge in.” Seeing the cat still looking at the pie-stand, the order is amended to add three wedges of pie.
While there are some furs, particularly those in Paris, that believe that food and good conversation are as natural a combination as the soup and grilled cheese that has been ordered, the Great Organizer has the wit to observe that neither the cat nor horse have anything on their mind but the enjoyment of their meal. It is thus that intellectual stimulus must come for the roebuck from a leisurely study of ancient and yellowing posters of the joys of Athens and Salonika.
A stentorian belch from Jake, and a creak in the stool from Stanley, announce that the entrees are disposed of, doing justice to the cuisine of the establishment. The bill is settled, with great gravity, by Sergei Ivanovich as the pie is delivered. Two shillings sixpence, including tip. The notion of a tip appears to confuse the owner, who wanders off, muttering in Greek.
“Listen, how much is my share…?”
“I will not hear of it, Citizen Morgan. You have done a good turn to me, and in turn, the debt shall be repaid.” A wince and a confused belch. “I think I shall owe a cock to Asclepius, too. I should have borne that warning of that undershirt in mind. But please excuse such a distressing topic. To move on: it would interest me, Citizen, as to an explanation of the sharp difference in sartorial standards from our previous meeting to today. I refer to those articles of clothing known collectively as the “soup and fish.””
“Oh, that.” A moody stirring of the coffee, followed by a sigh. “Girlfriend issue, I’m sorry to say. Well, it will soon be over.”
An eyebrow raise. “Why the defeatist attitude, Citizen? Is this affection and show of heart not reciprocated?”
“Hey.”
A brief turn to the cat, who has reached over and confiscated, without opposition, the roebuck’s wedge of pie. “Is the dame sweet on youse?”
“Well, yes, Phoebe and I do love each other.”
The jaw of the catamount creaks open, but in the blessed interval between generation of thought and utterance, the Great Organizer slides his wedge of pie, distracting the cat.
“Ah! We progress, and can put a name to Love. There is some sort of obstacle, then, to the full realization of happiness?”
“Two obstacles. Money and a rival.” While initially puzzling, Stanley finds himself willing to confide in the roebuck fully and completely. The latter tilts his head, swiveling an ear.
“Yet you do not seem to blame this Phoebe. More to the story?”
“It’s her family, really, not her. I can’t say I blame them…” Through two cups of coffee, and the remaining pie, the situation is laid before the Great Organizer. The cat remains silent, having received at one point the Warning Eye from the deer to remain silent.
“And so Citizen von der Wald is due in the near future to arrive, sweep Citizeness Trotter off her hooves, and ride off into the sunset, or at least Park Avenue?”
“That’s about the size of it. Look, don’t get me wrong: Phoebe isn’t a gold-digger by any stretch…”
“She don’t sound like one.” A surprising insight from the catamount, which is met with brief curiosity from the roebuck (luckily, the observation is discreet).
“Citizen Jake, over there, is a surprising font of earthly wisdom. But he has a point, and one with which I am in agreement. Circumstances, as well as family feeling, are against you.”
A rueful nod from Stanley, and a long pull at the coffee.
“Hey.” With no response from the horse, the catamount repeats himself, accompanied by a soft punch to the shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hmmm?”
“You oughta ask ‘im t’help youse. He’s smart.” A meaty forefinger, stained with berry pie, indicates Sergei Ivanovich.
“What? Well…well, heck, I can’t go around imposing myself on any old fur…”
“He ain’t old. He’s sorta…”
“We shall omit particulars, Citizen Jake. I am a citizen of the world without documents, and we shall leave things at that. Nevertheless, and once again, my colleague is a surprising font of wisdom. He has looked into my soul, and finds that my sense of justice is awakened. I have nothing against Citizen von der Wald – I am sure that he is not red in tooth and claw. Though if he wears a tall silk hat, I reserve the right to change my mind. Furs who wear tall silk hats deserve whatever they get. Where was I? Ah, yes. I have nothing against Citizen von der Wald, but your plight moves me.”
The trio moves out into the late afternoon sunshine.
“Where is Citizeness Trotter staying?”
(At this point, Jake is puzzled, since he believes the roebuck is already in possession of such knowledge. The oddness of the moment is put down to Genius, and left at that.)
“She’s staying at the Marleybone, just up the Prom, there.”
“Ah. Citizen Jake and your humble interlocutor are staying at Shepherd’s, in the train of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Tush.”
The roebuck’s arm is gripped firmly. “Wait a minute. Who?”
“Harold Tush. You know Citizen Tush? More to the point, you know Citizeness Tush? In the case of the latter, you have my sympathies. I myself have only just met her, but I have had sufficient.”
“He’s the publisher, right?”
“Fame is not fleeting, it would appear. Indeed, he is the publisher of the Nursery Weekly, the number from two weeks ago I herewith present. The leader is a stirring ode to firefighters, a worthy profession that I admire. Consider: “The firefighter is strong. He can carry a fur out of the fire when they can’t move.” Pithy and to the point, Citizen Morgan, and something that the New York Times or Le Monde ought to emulate.” A squint at the magazine, and a puzzled air. “I cannot say that I approve of the layout of this drawing. Surely, a firefighter carrying a fur at such an angle would do something terrible to their back.”
The professional in Stanley Morgan is aroused, and with an exchange of courtesies, the magazine is handed over, with the horse extracting a 2B from a shirt pocket. Within a minute, there emerges in the margins of the magazine a firefighter who most likely is not headed for an interview with a chiropractor.
“A great deal of skill, Citizen, and the work of an expert.”
“Listen, Sergei…I know I’m already into you for a big favour, but can you…?”
A magisterial paw is raised. “Say no more, Citizen. I shall add it to my list. Somehow, some way or another, this fits into the grand scheme of things.” The paw is then extended to seal the matter in a shake, and it is done.
“HEY!”
A brief glance shows that this interjection, contrary to experience, has not come from Jake, but from a sow of awful familiarity, striding at a very rapid pace down the Prom. With a brief murmur of thanks, the horse exercises his species’ fabled common sense and quietly clops away, and just in time, too.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”
“Jake and I have been on our meal break, and…”
“Who told you that you could lollygag about?”
A gentle cough of injured pride. “With respect, your husband had supplied us with some expense money…”
“No doubt spent on booze.” The outraged wiggle of eyebrows this sparks is ignored. “Where’s my car?”
“Car, madame?”
“Car. C-A-R. Car. The thing intelligent furs use to get about.”
“Intelligent furs or no, madame, you will perceive that the roads here do not readily accommodate motor-cars. You will…”
“And how am I supposed to get about and do some shopping? Walk?”
Behind her back, the catamount is appraising his employer’s spouse. From his vantage point, it is obvious that a programme of brisk exercise would do no harm to Mrs. Tush, and would benefit all. Prudence, however, counsels silence.
“I believe if you enquire at the concierge’s station, you will find that I have engaged a ricksha for you.”
“A what?”
“Ricksha. R-I-C…”
“I KNOW HOW TO SPELL IT! You want me to ride in a ricksha?”
“Owing to the shortage of howdahs, it would appear to be the best course, madame.”
“What, is a little runt like you going to pull it? Or this big lummox over here?”
“The hiring of a ricksha, madame, also includes within the cost the engagement of a professional, a fur who knows his business.”
“Well, have it ready in twenty minutes. I’m going up to change. I’m meeting the Princess for some shopping…what’s that look for?”
“Nothing, madame, you were saying?”
“Have that ricksha ready in twenty minutes, and if he’s just ten seconds late, I’ll use your head for a spindle, got it?” And with that, there is an angry turn of the trotter, and soon blessed silence falls again.
“Dat’s one tough dame, boss.”
“I, personally, find the notion that she is being pally with the Princess Moushaska to be deeply troubling. No good can come of hanging around with such company, Citizen Jake. Nevertheless, let us fulfill our duties to our master and mistress, and make sure the ricksha is engaged. And that the driver is sufficiently warned.”
Category All / All
Species Horse
Size 309 x 400px
File Size 35.9 kB
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