*****
The workings of the Spontoon Ricksha Drivers’ Union are opaque to outsiders. How certain jobs are apportioned among the membership is a process only slightly less mysterious that the goings-on of the Kremlin, or Election Day in Vatican City. Generally speaking, the jobs that hold out the greatest promise for long-term and gainful employment are assigned to those in the hierarchy who have knowledge of them. The eminent political philosopher George Washington Plunkitt refers to this as “honest graft.”

In this particular case, the fur who has “seen his opportunities an’ took ‘em” goes by the simple and straightforward native appellation of Po’na. By an adroit use of family connections, bribery, and the skillful use of wrenches on unattended rickshas, he has risen nearly to the top of his profession. Which is not to say all has been a rose-strewn path. Being the ricksha driver for Reginald (Reggie) Buckhorn is to try one’s soul in the furnace of absurdity.

Still, when cam the opportunity to be the driver for Xanthippe Tush, the job was seized. There is a tide in the affairs of furs which, taken at its flood, leads on to fortune. Or, at least, generous tips. One might also ponder the wisdom of venturing heedlessly to jurisdictions where seraphim and cherubim have given the miss-in-baulk to the venture.

The Great Organizer, in his own fashion, is doing his level best to at least provide a decent warning to Po’na of the potential issues that are involved. With, sad to relate, the same success that might have greeted one of the 7th Cavalry’s scouts. Po’na is not a fox to take counsel of the fears of others, however couched in brotherly proletarian spirit.

At precisely nineteen minutes and fifty-five seconds after their last painful interview, employer-spouse and employee are once again united. Or at least in close proximity. The rough state of physical distance is in part due to the presence of Jake, who has been pressed into service as a general largo-al-factorum in charge of hefting acquisitions, a job that in all truth he is eminently qualified to undertake.

The venture does not, it should be said, get off to a promising start. A catamount’s bulk is very difficult to distribute evenly in the back of a ricksha, and the proposition that the cat should sit in the centre and sow flank him is in every sense a non-starter. Considered, but not voiced, by the roebuck is the further proposition that no amount of engineering could take sow and feline at once. Perforce, it is footpads for Jake, who accepts his fate with a stoicism that warms the heart of Sergei Ivanovich. It brings to mind days of fawn-hood in lands where sons of the soil tilled fields little changed since the time of Nightingale-the-Robber.

The first item on the agenda is, of course, to join up with Her Serene Highness, who is returning to Casino Island by means of her yacht’s gig. Evidently, the Princess has a talent as a quick-change artiste, for she is now sitting in said gig wearing a frilly dress with faint overtures of nautical costume. John Reed meets Arthur Sullivan, if you will. Just as well that there are likely no veterans of Jutland or that ilk around and about to take offence.

The gig having been piloted to the Hundred Thousand Pound Pier on the Lido, the question arises as to the means of egress; to wit, Wolfess A, up Ladder B, to Lido Promenade C. Where ladder B present certain awkward social obstacles.

The vigorous application of paw to side of head indicates to Jake that Mrs. Tush is requesting that he render Moushaska assistance. The frowning of muzzle and tapping of a footpad encased in stocking and high-heeled shoe indicates a second of the motion on the part of the wolfess. As there are only two votes that count, the motion passes without dissent.

It is thus that, barely seconds later, the gig driver sees to his slack-jawed amazement the sight of Her Serene Highness being hefted over Jake’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, lupine tail fluffed out and held at a greatly undignified angle. An effective means of transport, and dead safe in the bargain, but one that would not have occurred to Sir Walter Raleigh. (Perhaps it should have.)

The wolfess is deposited – gently, it should be noted – in the ricksha. The inevitable outburst of wrath from Xanthippe Tush is surprisingly forestalled by an even more surprisingly mute Moushaska. Truth be told, a small dark corner of her soul not usually frequented has been well illuminated, and the knowledge deeply disturbs Her Serene Highness, who needs time to gather her wits.

Reprieve granted, the quartet of driver, femmefurs and feline mel-servant move off to the Casino Island equivalent of Ladies’ Mile. We say equivalent, because in sum the distance is likely only a hundred yards. Lacks a certain euphonic quality if one sticks to the facts.

Most stores on Casino Island, it should be noted, cater to the kind of tourist that is of the opinion that as long as they are in a tropical clime, they should dress as the natives do. Which tends to produce results that allow one to muse on the dietary habits of natives of Scranton, Muncie, Shaker Heights and the like. But please excuse such a distressing image.

To resume: there are, however, a few selected shops that cater to furs of a certain taste and even more certain cheque-book. They are managed by furs who would thrive in Milan, Paris or London, but choose to practice their trade on Casino Island owing to low rents, easy hours, attractive scenery (when the mels are exercising on the beach) and an occasional bonanza.

It is the work of but a few seconds for word to pass down the line of sparse-but-exceptionally-tasteful windows that a Pair of Live Ones is present. As prices are not advertised (this is, after all, not the territory of F.W. Woolworth & Co.), the watchwords of the day are caveat emptor.

Scant paragraphs ago, we referred to Po’na’s soul being tried in the furnace by the now semi-legendary antics of Reggie Buckhorn. Had Jake known of these, in his simple, direct way he would have alluded to the relatively soft nature of these trials.

No mel likes to go shopping with a femmefur. There are alternating and conflicting demands to be quiet and venture opinions, most of which are ill-informed, wrong, or ignored. These are immutable laws of nature. If the shopping involves hats, one is in the First Circle of Hell. Things spiral rapidly downward (without the benefit of Vergil guiding) if shoes, dresses and accessories are involved.

Of his experiences in Mlle. Chevreuil’s Maison Secrete des Femmes, Jake had only this to say later to Sergei Ivanovich.

“It ain’t right makin’ a guy sit ‘round wit’ all dem lacy t’ings about.”

To which Sergei Ivanovich could only apply the ideological analysis relating to humiliating the working class for the benefit of the haute bourgeoisie.

The end result, at least for the exclusive ateliers of the Lido Promenade, is that there is little reason to remain open the rest of the mild and sunny late afternoon, when beaches (and muscular beach-going mels) can attract one’s attention.

The afternoon having passed in one of the Princess’ favourite ways, she is in mood both radiant and expansive. The weltanschuung of Moushaska and Xanthippe Tush, as revealed in conversation, proves to be not dissimilar. (Taxes, hatred of; socialism, sneering at; mels, contempt for.) The inevitable happens. An invitation to a party the next evening on board the Polar Sun is tendered.

The fact that such a party has not hitherto existed or been planned is of import to neither the sow nor wolfess. The latter, of course, can always arrange such things with a snap of the fingers (and application of voice and footpads). The former is in a state of ignorance that can best be described not as bliss, but ecstasy.

The sight of Herr Lindt-Trapp’s establishment, with the mystical allure that chocolate can have on those sensitive to it, is welcome to both, and crisp orders are made to fox and catamount alike that a stop of importance is being made.

While Jake is engaged in noble proletarian toil (to wit, staggering under what is even for him a heavy burden of assorted bags and boxes), Sergei Ivanovich is deeply involved in what is, for him, a somewhat uncharacteristic operation. He is engaged in a business transaction.

The counterparty to this transaction is, in stature, roughly at the level of his stomach, noteworthy if you consider the relatively small size of roe deer in general. The intellectual stature of this individual is of a level that would belie his youth and native upbringing.

“Head-bush wants slingshot, head-bush pay much to self.”

The vigorous application of a paw to small feline ear indicates a full and frank exchange of views on the nature of the diplomacy. Negotiations resume on a slightly higher plane.

“Creature with antlers outlander want slingshot, two pounds pay self.”

“Outrageous profiteering. Bordering, I might add, on the infamous. Fifteen shillings.”

“Creature with antlers outlander bereft sanity is. Slingshot one, available only in area is.”

Clearly, a student of economics at the practical level. Already, the Kitten has grasped the concept of the inexorable laws of supply and demand. Supply: one slingshot. Demand: needed in immediate future. Price, ergo: steep.

The requested tariff of two pounds is only acceptable on the basis of the provision of a supply of ready ammunition: namely, a pawful of heavy marbles. Rolling a few between finger and thumb informs the Great Organizer that the marbles are likely loaded, and that the Kitten has in his future the makings of a pool shark or a member of the local government.

Meanwhile, inside the atelier of Herr Lindt-Trapp, much discussion over the relative merits of the chocolates on display is underway. Sample trays are being passed back and forth over the gleaming counter. None of which, we must note, are being proffered to the catamount, much to that feline’s great dismay (but probably to the benefit of the shop’s balance sheet). Instead, the sow and wolfess are receiving the exclusive attentions of the chocolate shop staff. Jake confines himself to a gloomy perch on a bench, watching the glass tank high above, as the chocolate mixes and whorls in a ballet of confectionery.

Negotiations in this establishment proceed much more smoothly than the near-simultaneous negotiations over kitten toys being undertaken scant yards away. Herr Lindt-Trap is deeply gratified by the apparent lack of budget, and two large and ornate boxes are being filled gradually with a choice selection of treats.

For Sergei Ivanovich, selection is also a matter of importance. The use of a small paper cup of water helps in the selection of which marbles have had the most lead added to them. In addition, there is the matter of the selection of a site of operations that is both within range and discreet (i.e., not within easy eyeshot of a constable). A convenient alley-way, behind some dustbins, is chosen as the ideal ground.

With some reluctance (and a last perusal of the free samples), Mrs. Tush and Princess Moushaska prepare for departure. Some brisk and frank orders are addressed to Jake, who slowly gathers up the assorted purchases.

It is Mr. Po’na, the rickshaw driver outside, who hears the first report of upcoming events. Namely, the report produced by something small and hard hitting the large glass chocolate tank on the roof of the shop. With a fine sense of self-preservation, the rickshaw is hurriedly moved down the street.

This causes some difficulty at the entrance to the shop. The two would-be passengers have discovered that their mode of conveyance has now moved off without them, at a brisk pace. The sight and sound of two rather angry femmes addressing unkind and slanderous comments at high decibels has one unintended (for them) consequence: the sound of two more impacts against the glass tank high above are obscured.

It is only when Her Serene Highness feels a few drops of moisture, looks in puzzlement at a clear sky, looks in puzzlement at what appears to be light brown raindrops on her paw, and looks up again, that the full facts are brought home. Not, as it turns out, that this intelligence is of any use.

Inspector Stagg, discussing the matter later, noted certain small-scale parallels to the Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919. An admirable grasp of history, that. One that would have been wasted on Mrs. Tush and Princess Moushaska.

With an initial crash of glass, followed by a glutinous and slow-moving roar of liquid, the Princess’ initial surmise of rain is borne out in ways quite unexpected. A fortunate accident of architectural design, namely, a very sturdy ornamental sign above the doors of the shop, slows the cataract somewhat. But not completely.

Within scant seconds, a new confection is invented: paw-dipped wolfess. The Princess vanishes under a steady flow of milk chocolate, becoming a true brown study. Mrs. Tush, standing a few paces away, more resembles a somewhat misshapen petit four, as she is liberally drizzled in chocolate.

For his part, Jake had been initially unaware of the crush of events, having focused his mental energies on the bags and boxes in his charge. In this, he was successful. Only the novel discovery that he was moving without the benefit of his footpads being utilized brings home to him the knowledge that he is walking upon liquid. Any resemblance to the Sea of Galilee is coincidental. Combined with a slight depression in the sidewalk, this produces the interesting effect of feline grace without the slightest effort on his part.

Alas, the stately progress is arrested by Mr. Po’na and his ricksha. The latter, in all justice, could not possibly have been expected to foresee events, so his surprise and dismay upon being met with a rapidly moving and large feline carrying both fox and ricksha away in a flood is understandable.

This rather less stately progression is fully arrested (in one sense) by the one automobile in the possession of the Casino Island Branch of the Spontoon Islands Constabulary, though this occurs only after two furs, an assortment of packages and boxes, a ricksha, a motor-car, a Detective Sergeant and a driver meet the dead end of a street some yards away.

Testimony on the events proves somewhat confusing, as there appear to be no eyewitnesses who can coherently describe the events. Jake’s general eloquence (lack thereof) is an excuse. For Mrs. Tush, a Vassar education for once proves inadequate, beyond a somewhat repetitive allusion to the need to consult with counsel with an eye toward lawsuits.

Her Serene Highness, soaked to the very fur in extremely high-quality Swiss milk chocolate, is unable to give evidence of any kind whatsoever. It is deemed expedient to send her back to the Polar Sun for a long, hot bath and perhaps more importantly a change of clothes. Again.