FA+
Shop
320
Views
Views
6
Favorites
Favorites
Category
All / All
Species Horse
Size 309 x 400
File Size 35.9 kB
Report this content
More from EOCostello
Listed in Folders
*****
The aftermath of the Johnstown-in-miniature takes the rest of the afternoon and some of the evening hours to sort out.
Jake and Po’na are held blameless for their role in the affair. Even Xanthippe Tush cannot argue against the non-fault of the cat in carrying out orders (as well as boxes and bags) under extreme circumstances. Po’na, for his part, promises a vigorous follow-up resolution by the Ricksha Driers’ Union relating to public safety.
Detective Sergeant Brush and the constable are extracted from the Constabulary car with only their dignity injured. A Department of Public Works employee at the scene incautious enough to advise Sergeant Brush to keep his vulpine tailfur out of the mess is soon the recipient of numerous parking citations and other minor violations of the traffic regulations.
Herr Lindt-Trapp can foresee long and awkward discussions with both the local government and his insurance adjusters in his future. A supply of Kirschwasser meant for fillings has been diverted to a more practical and direct use.
Xanthippe Tush, after a series of loud and acrimonious exchanges with numerous parties, stomps off in high dudgeon back to her hotel to effect a change.
When there, she encounters an oasis of calm in the form of the Great Organizer, who has taken care to dismantle his weapon, wipe it clean of paw-prints, and dispose of it in multiple locations, the spare ammunition being discreetly deposited in a nearby sewer opening.
Meanwhile, on board the yacht Polar Sun, the august person of Dr. Meffit, physician to furs of distinction visiting the islands, is required to deal with Her Serene Highness. To be fair, even the most reasonable of furs would have their nerves stretched to snapping point by similar events Moushaska had ensured. Still, her mood at this point would not meet the definition of “temperate,” and it is only by means of a powerful sedative, dropped with great sleight-of-paw in a tumbler of mineral water, that order is restored.
The enterprising headline writers at the Spontoon Mirror have already laid out the next morning’s headline: CHOC TREATMENT.
The Princess is blissfully unconscious as she is stripped (the clothes being given a decent burial at sea, as befits a costume with nautical overtones) and a warm bath is administered. Three warm baths, to be exact, and it is not a happy crewfur who has to clean the chocolate drips from deck and carpets. The rest of the crew, however, enjoys a night of peace and serenity, and enquiries are made as to Dr. Meffit’s recipe.
That is the state of affairs denied to Mr. Tush, for reasons we shall elaborate.
Mrs. Trush, having arrived back at the suite en deshabille et en chocolat has pressed Sergei Ivanovich into remedying matters. For the roebuck, this is mercifully limited to drawing a steaming hot bath and then getting out of sight.
As such, the Great Organizer is away from the theatre of action (engaged in organizing a change of clothes for Jake, and in general working to boost the cat’s shaken morale). Thus, it is only the sow, steaming physically and psychologically, who is left to her own devices to clothe herself.
Hard luck on Mr. Tush that he arrives at nearly the same instance that a forgotten pair of silk stockings is located. These delicate objects, one may remember, were missed by Phoebe Trotter. Alas, they are not missed by Xanthippe Tush, who derives from their presence the logical conclusion that certain loyalties due and owing her have no been met.
Sergei Ivanovich returns to a suite in a state of loud uproar (as opposed to soft uproar). Exhibit A is brandished in a manner that would earn the respect of Perry Mason. Cross-examination in the fine Mason style is also taking place, and the witness is being advised that if he doesn’t want his tusks wrapped round his neck, he should answer them. A wrinkle Mason never thought of.
The appearance of the roebuck is a straw that Harold Tush clutches at.
“For God’s sake, Sergei, tell her I don’t know anything about this.”
The “this” being fairly obvious in the circumstances, the deer duly bows. “Beg to report, it is the sweet and holy truth that my employer knows nothing of the articles that you are, it should be noted, mangling and mistreating.”
There is a crisp retort to the wounding effect that Sergei Ivanovich is dissembling. A brief, pained look, but the roebuck presses on.
“Assistance was recently rendered by myself to a young ladyfur who was in distress…”
This, alas, proves to be a starting point for misunderstanding, and it is only with a great deal of difficulty, and the arrival of Jake, that matters are fully sorted out. It is opined that as the catamount is, quote, too stupid to lie, endquote, matters have reached an awkward truce. Evidence by a slamming door to the suite’s second bedroom.
Harold Tush is given a précis of events leading to the accidental presence of the silk stockings, with initial disbelief mixed with sympathy. The boar is, at heart, a mel of generous and chivalrous nature. Also, it would appear, a trusting soul, as neither roebuck nor feline are quizzed as to the veracity of their account. An offer to produce the witness is graciously declined, as a slow retreat to the first bedroom is sounded.
*****
At this point, aside from the sound of high-pressure hoses attempting to de-chocolate some of the streets of Casino Island, relative peace has descended upon the scene. Some furs have even ventured into L’Etoile d’Argent to enjoy a pre-theatre dinner.
Stanley Morgan (you remember him, no?) is enjoying a meal that, while it is not plentiful in quantity, is beyond reproach in terms of quality. As it turns out, the chef of the establishment fancies himself as a judge of art, and any fur that can quickly run up a creditable imitation of fin-de-siecle lettering for use on a menu will quickly earn that chef’s respect. As well as, it should be noted, stuffed mushrooms with a delicate seasoning and a plate of tender carrots.
The meal acquires a distinct flavor, and highly improved scenery, when Phoebe Trotter (we know you remember her) is shown to her seat. Table for one, the stallion is interested to hear, and it is a seat with a commanding view of Lido Promenade and ocean. The management is, evidently, serious about making amends for the contretemps a la Moushaska.
It does not take long for stallion and filly to sense each other’s presence, even with a table intervening. The elderly cardinals who have just occupied that table are at first startled, and then pleased, to be offered a trade of tables very much to their advantage. This does afford Miss Trotter the opportunity to sit back to back with Stanley Morgan.
“I knew you were here, Stanley.”
“My charming face?”
“Not quite. The heading on this menu. Your initials are on it. Signing for your supper?”
“Honest toil, honest reward. Forgive my asking: dining alone?”
“Henry’s still a bit shaken up from this morning. He’s dining in before we go out.”
“Oh? Was he involved in the chocolate matter?”
“What? What chocolate matter? No, he got knocked headfirst into a rubbish tip along with Princess Moushaska.”
“…”
“Forgive my asking, Stanley, but what chocolate matter?”
“Never mind. I’m not sure you’d believe me, anyway.”
“Try me. I’ve seen some odd things around here the last few days.”
“Princess Moushaska got half-drowned by a few hundred gallons of liquid milk chocolate falling on her.”
At this bit of news, the ears, mane and tail of Phoebe Trotter act as if touched to a Tesla coil. Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Nevertheless, the news is believed quite readily.
“My God, he’s good.”
“Hmmm? Who’s good? By the way, speaking of good, try the stuffed mushrooms.”
“Thanks, I shall. Well, it’s like this, Stanley: I needed some help to deal with Moushaska, and a fur volunteered to help me. Funny sort of fur, and he’s got a pretty funny sidekick, too, but he obviously knows his stuff.”
“On the job already?”
“I know the sidekick helped with the rubbish dump, and if Sergei didn’t fix things with the chocolate, as you say, I’m a Dutch…”
A forkful of mushroom is stopped in mid-air just short of Stanley’s muzzle. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Did you say your friend’s name was Sergei?”
“You know him?”
“Roe deer, flower in button-hole, very precise and organized?”
“…”
“His pal is a mountain lion, sort of poured into his suit and no one said “when?””
“…”
“…”
At this point, eye contact is risked, subtlety and discretion be damned.
“Stanley, how do you know them?”
“Errrr. Well. It’s like this, Phoebe. I’ve sort of taken them on in an advisory capacity. You know, to help with an important project.”
“Me.”
“Well, I said it was important, didn’t I?”
Discreet postures are resumed, but not before Stanley’s spirits are lifted high by a smile from a certain quarter.
There is a long interval of silence, punctuated by Stanley Morgan dawdling over his dessert, and Phoebe Morgan moving quickly through her entrée.
“Lobby of this hotel, Stanley, 11.30 p.m. I’ll be back after the show. Leave word with Sergei and Jake…they’re staying here…have them be here, too.”
The stallion really would prefer only two for the meeting, but as there is a certain logic to the lady equine’s order, it is accepted without demur.
*****
With the punctuality that is the hallmark of the Organized Mind, roebuck and catamount exit the elevator into the lobby of Shepherd’s Hotel precisely at 11.28 p.m. A late night reveler is somewhat surprised to be addressed.
“Make way for the factotum of the city.”
To the surprise of both reveler and roebuck, a rumble of voice, in tune, emerges:
Largo al factotum della città.
Presto a bottega che l'alba è già.
Ah, che bel vivere, che bel piacere
per un barbiere di qualità! di qualità!
“Citizen Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“While I count myself among the aficionados of the work of Rossini, there is, perhaps, a time and a place for such things, and near midnight in a hotel lobby is perhaps not one of them. I do not criticize, I merely inform.”
The cat, with an innocent graciousness, merely nods, and continues to move his bulk with as much grace as a somewhat tight-fitting white jacket and trousers allow.
“Psssssst.”
One would be surprised how often that noise is heard in the lobbies of high-class hotels. It’s usually accompanied by a whispered code word, and the secret plans for submarines. Here, it is accompanied by a pair of horses hiding behind some potted miniature palm trees. The camouflage is mostly successful.
The roebuck joins the duo behind the foliage. Jake, with some presence of mind, stands in front, blotting out most of the greenery.
The presence of both equines does not ruffle the Great Organizer in the least.
“Ah! I highly approve of this efficiency, which can only lead to greater Stahkanovite production. I am at your disposal.”
The stallion clears his throat. “Sergei Ivanovich, are you helping this young lady, right here?”
“For complicated reasons, the answer is a very clear “yes,” Citizen Morgan. The assistance is in the matter of the People Versus Her Serene Highness the Princess Moushaska, the charge being getting above herself and in general being an annoyance to the citizenry at large.”
The filly clears her throat. “Sergei, are you helping Stanley?”
A brief and discreet eye to the stallion, which is met with a nod.
“The answer to that is also a clear “yes,” Citizeness Trotter. But I sense you know the answer already, no?”
It is Stanley who puts the question direct.
“Sergei, was it you who triggered the chocolate waterfall this afternoon?”
At this, a long and thoughtful look crosses the roebuck’s face.
“I would be guilty of a gross dissimulation if there was a denial of certain facts regarding recent events in connection with the structural failure of tanks containing foodstuffs, said facts concerning the failure induced by outside agencies of the integrity of such vessels, the induction of which was instigated by the present interlocutor who refers to himself in the first person singular on a habitual basis, and who takes full and complete responsibility for such actions, coming as they did from a mixture of the chivalric impulse and a certain imperative that would be known to Edmund Dantes, and who trusts that certain matters regarding factual revelations will remain in strictest confidence.”
There is a long, silent interval after this bit of verbiage, which is only broken by Jake.
“He done it, mister.”
The translation comes as some relief, but also evidences concern, particularly from Phoebe Trotter.
“But Sergei, what’s going to happen next? I mean, isn’t there going to be trouble?”
“I cannot predict the precise movements of Her Serene Highness in the future, Citizeness, but…”
“She’s gonna t’row a party on her boat, boss.”
Three sets of eyes turn, to find the catamount has taken a large jug of water, and is, with surprising delicacy, watering a slightly sickly palm tree. You know how cats are about potted plants.
“Ah! And, Citizen Jake, you came by this how?”
“I heard dat crumb-bum…”
“By which you mean Her Serene Highness?”
“She’s a crumb-bum, boss.”
“Indeed so. Motion passes unanimously. To return to the issue at paw: you heard this…?”
“Dat wolf dame tells Miz Tush she’s gonna t’row a party on the boat t’morra. Miz Tush wuz real happy, ‘cause she gotta invite.”
“Hmmmmmm. Just a moment.”
A quick departure, and an equally quick return. “I see no invitation yet, Citizen Jake.”
“Miz Tush an’ th’ wolf dame wuz talkin’ just ‘fore the chocolate went splat.”
Light dawns in Stanley Morgan’s eyes. “Oh. So she might not have sent the invitation out, yet. Busy, one supposes.”
Something else dawns in Phoebe Morgan’s eyes. “Hrmph. Busy out cold, I hope.”
“Phoebe…”
“I’m with Jake, she’s a crumb-bum. Truer words never spoken.”
A small paw is raised.
“The meeting has already passed the motion regarding the status, to wit, crumb-bum, of Her Serene Highness. To move on: we shall assume that my employer’s spouse will accept this invitation. What then?”
Three blank looks meet the roebuck’s eyes, of which only one is habitual.
“Hmmmm. Evidently, this will require inspiration. We table the motion. Also tabled: the matter of Citizen von der Wald. Am I correct?”
Reluctant nods from the horses.
“I guess so, Sergei Ivanovich. I’m sure Phoebe wants anything involving him to be handled gently. Nothing at all like the Princess, if you can help it, right Phoebe?”
“Yes, that’s right, Stanley. Sergei, the gloves are off for Moushaska, but for Henry, it’s Marquess of Queensbury Rules, understand?”
A bow. “It shall require delicate work, but I shall obey.”
With that, the meeting breaks up on a cordial note.
The aftermath of the Johnstown-in-miniature takes the rest of the afternoon and some of the evening hours to sort out.
Jake and Po’na are held blameless for their role in the affair. Even Xanthippe Tush cannot argue against the non-fault of the cat in carrying out orders (as well as boxes and bags) under extreme circumstances. Po’na, for his part, promises a vigorous follow-up resolution by the Ricksha Driers’ Union relating to public safety.
Detective Sergeant Brush and the constable are extracted from the Constabulary car with only their dignity injured. A Department of Public Works employee at the scene incautious enough to advise Sergeant Brush to keep his vulpine tailfur out of the mess is soon the recipient of numerous parking citations and other minor violations of the traffic regulations.
Herr Lindt-Trapp can foresee long and awkward discussions with both the local government and his insurance adjusters in his future. A supply of Kirschwasser meant for fillings has been diverted to a more practical and direct use.
Xanthippe Tush, after a series of loud and acrimonious exchanges with numerous parties, stomps off in high dudgeon back to her hotel to effect a change.
When there, she encounters an oasis of calm in the form of the Great Organizer, who has taken care to dismantle his weapon, wipe it clean of paw-prints, and dispose of it in multiple locations, the spare ammunition being discreetly deposited in a nearby sewer opening.
Meanwhile, on board the yacht Polar Sun, the august person of Dr. Meffit, physician to furs of distinction visiting the islands, is required to deal with Her Serene Highness. To be fair, even the most reasonable of furs would have their nerves stretched to snapping point by similar events Moushaska had ensured. Still, her mood at this point would not meet the definition of “temperate,” and it is only by means of a powerful sedative, dropped with great sleight-of-paw in a tumbler of mineral water, that order is restored.
The enterprising headline writers at the Spontoon Mirror have already laid out the next morning’s headline: CHOC TREATMENT.
The Princess is blissfully unconscious as she is stripped (the clothes being given a decent burial at sea, as befits a costume with nautical overtones) and a warm bath is administered. Three warm baths, to be exact, and it is not a happy crewfur who has to clean the chocolate drips from deck and carpets. The rest of the crew, however, enjoys a night of peace and serenity, and enquiries are made as to Dr. Meffit’s recipe.
That is the state of affairs denied to Mr. Tush, for reasons we shall elaborate.
Mrs. Trush, having arrived back at the suite en deshabille et en chocolat has pressed Sergei Ivanovich into remedying matters. For the roebuck, this is mercifully limited to drawing a steaming hot bath and then getting out of sight.
As such, the Great Organizer is away from the theatre of action (engaged in organizing a change of clothes for Jake, and in general working to boost the cat’s shaken morale). Thus, it is only the sow, steaming physically and psychologically, who is left to her own devices to clothe herself.
Hard luck on Mr. Tush that he arrives at nearly the same instance that a forgotten pair of silk stockings is located. These delicate objects, one may remember, were missed by Phoebe Trotter. Alas, they are not missed by Xanthippe Tush, who derives from their presence the logical conclusion that certain loyalties due and owing her have no been met.
Sergei Ivanovich returns to a suite in a state of loud uproar (as opposed to soft uproar). Exhibit A is brandished in a manner that would earn the respect of Perry Mason. Cross-examination in the fine Mason style is also taking place, and the witness is being advised that if he doesn’t want his tusks wrapped round his neck, he should answer them. A wrinkle Mason never thought of.
The appearance of the roebuck is a straw that Harold Tush clutches at.
“For God’s sake, Sergei, tell her I don’t know anything about this.”
The “this” being fairly obvious in the circumstances, the deer duly bows. “Beg to report, it is the sweet and holy truth that my employer knows nothing of the articles that you are, it should be noted, mangling and mistreating.”
There is a crisp retort to the wounding effect that Sergei Ivanovich is dissembling. A brief, pained look, but the roebuck presses on.
“Assistance was recently rendered by myself to a young ladyfur who was in distress…”
This, alas, proves to be a starting point for misunderstanding, and it is only with a great deal of difficulty, and the arrival of Jake, that matters are fully sorted out. It is opined that as the catamount is, quote, too stupid to lie, endquote, matters have reached an awkward truce. Evidence by a slamming door to the suite’s second bedroom.
Harold Tush is given a précis of events leading to the accidental presence of the silk stockings, with initial disbelief mixed with sympathy. The boar is, at heart, a mel of generous and chivalrous nature. Also, it would appear, a trusting soul, as neither roebuck nor feline are quizzed as to the veracity of their account. An offer to produce the witness is graciously declined, as a slow retreat to the first bedroom is sounded.
*****
At this point, aside from the sound of high-pressure hoses attempting to de-chocolate some of the streets of Casino Island, relative peace has descended upon the scene. Some furs have even ventured into L’Etoile d’Argent to enjoy a pre-theatre dinner.
Stanley Morgan (you remember him, no?) is enjoying a meal that, while it is not plentiful in quantity, is beyond reproach in terms of quality. As it turns out, the chef of the establishment fancies himself as a judge of art, and any fur that can quickly run up a creditable imitation of fin-de-siecle lettering for use on a menu will quickly earn that chef’s respect. As well as, it should be noted, stuffed mushrooms with a delicate seasoning and a plate of tender carrots.
The meal acquires a distinct flavor, and highly improved scenery, when Phoebe Trotter (we know you remember her) is shown to her seat. Table for one, the stallion is interested to hear, and it is a seat with a commanding view of Lido Promenade and ocean. The management is, evidently, serious about making amends for the contretemps a la Moushaska.
It does not take long for stallion and filly to sense each other’s presence, even with a table intervening. The elderly cardinals who have just occupied that table are at first startled, and then pleased, to be offered a trade of tables very much to their advantage. This does afford Miss Trotter the opportunity to sit back to back with Stanley Morgan.
“I knew you were here, Stanley.”
“My charming face?”
“Not quite. The heading on this menu. Your initials are on it. Signing for your supper?”
“Honest toil, honest reward. Forgive my asking: dining alone?”
“Henry’s still a bit shaken up from this morning. He’s dining in before we go out.”
“Oh? Was he involved in the chocolate matter?”
“What? What chocolate matter? No, he got knocked headfirst into a rubbish tip along with Princess Moushaska.”
“…”
“Forgive my asking, Stanley, but what chocolate matter?”
“Never mind. I’m not sure you’d believe me, anyway.”
“Try me. I’ve seen some odd things around here the last few days.”
“Princess Moushaska got half-drowned by a few hundred gallons of liquid milk chocolate falling on her.”
At this bit of news, the ears, mane and tail of Phoebe Trotter act as if touched to a Tesla coil. Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Nevertheless, the news is believed quite readily.
“My God, he’s good.”
“Hmmm? Who’s good? By the way, speaking of good, try the stuffed mushrooms.”
“Thanks, I shall. Well, it’s like this, Stanley: I needed some help to deal with Moushaska, and a fur volunteered to help me. Funny sort of fur, and he’s got a pretty funny sidekick, too, but he obviously knows his stuff.”
“On the job already?”
“I know the sidekick helped with the rubbish dump, and if Sergei didn’t fix things with the chocolate, as you say, I’m a Dutch…”
A forkful of mushroom is stopped in mid-air just short of Stanley’s muzzle. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Did you say your friend’s name was Sergei?”
“You know him?”
“Roe deer, flower in button-hole, very precise and organized?”
“…”
“His pal is a mountain lion, sort of poured into his suit and no one said “when?””
“…”
“…”
At this point, eye contact is risked, subtlety and discretion be damned.
“Stanley, how do you know them?”
“Errrr. Well. It’s like this, Phoebe. I’ve sort of taken them on in an advisory capacity. You know, to help with an important project.”
“Me.”
“Well, I said it was important, didn’t I?”
Discreet postures are resumed, but not before Stanley’s spirits are lifted high by a smile from a certain quarter.
There is a long interval of silence, punctuated by Stanley Morgan dawdling over his dessert, and Phoebe Morgan moving quickly through her entrée.
“Lobby of this hotel, Stanley, 11.30 p.m. I’ll be back after the show. Leave word with Sergei and Jake…they’re staying here…have them be here, too.”
The stallion really would prefer only two for the meeting, but as there is a certain logic to the lady equine’s order, it is accepted without demur.
*****
With the punctuality that is the hallmark of the Organized Mind, roebuck and catamount exit the elevator into the lobby of Shepherd’s Hotel precisely at 11.28 p.m. A late night reveler is somewhat surprised to be addressed.
“Make way for the factotum of the city.”
To the surprise of both reveler and roebuck, a rumble of voice, in tune, emerges:
Largo al factotum della città.
Presto a bottega che l'alba è già.
Ah, che bel vivere, che bel piacere
per un barbiere di qualità! di qualità!
“Citizen Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“While I count myself among the aficionados of the work of Rossini, there is, perhaps, a time and a place for such things, and near midnight in a hotel lobby is perhaps not one of them. I do not criticize, I merely inform.”
The cat, with an innocent graciousness, merely nods, and continues to move his bulk with as much grace as a somewhat tight-fitting white jacket and trousers allow.
“Psssssst.”
One would be surprised how often that noise is heard in the lobbies of high-class hotels. It’s usually accompanied by a whispered code word, and the secret plans for submarines. Here, it is accompanied by a pair of horses hiding behind some potted miniature palm trees. The camouflage is mostly successful.
The roebuck joins the duo behind the foliage. Jake, with some presence of mind, stands in front, blotting out most of the greenery.
The presence of both equines does not ruffle the Great Organizer in the least.
“Ah! I highly approve of this efficiency, which can only lead to greater Stahkanovite production. I am at your disposal.”
The stallion clears his throat. “Sergei Ivanovich, are you helping this young lady, right here?”
“For complicated reasons, the answer is a very clear “yes,” Citizen Morgan. The assistance is in the matter of the People Versus Her Serene Highness the Princess Moushaska, the charge being getting above herself and in general being an annoyance to the citizenry at large.”
The filly clears her throat. “Sergei, are you helping Stanley?”
A brief and discreet eye to the stallion, which is met with a nod.
“The answer to that is also a clear “yes,” Citizeness Trotter. But I sense you know the answer already, no?”
It is Stanley who puts the question direct.
“Sergei, was it you who triggered the chocolate waterfall this afternoon?”
At this, a long and thoughtful look crosses the roebuck’s face.
“I would be guilty of a gross dissimulation if there was a denial of certain facts regarding recent events in connection with the structural failure of tanks containing foodstuffs, said facts concerning the failure induced by outside agencies of the integrity of such vessels, the induction of which was instigated by the present interlocutor who refers to himself in the first person singular on a habitual basis, and who takes full and complete responsibility for such actions, coming as they did from a mixture of the chivalric impulse and a certain imperative that would be known to Edmund Dantes, and who trusts that certain matters regarding factual revelations will remain in strictest confidence.”
There is a long, silent interval after this bit of verbiage, which is only broken by Jake.
“He done it, mister.”
The translation comes as some relief, but also evidences concern, particularly from Phoebe Trotter.
“But Sergei, what’s going to happen next? I mean, isn’t there going to be trouble?”
“I cannot predict the precise movements of Her Serene Highness in the future, Citizeness, but…”
“She’s gonna t’row a party on her boat, boss.”
Three sets of eyes turn, to find the catamount has taken a large jug of water, and is, with surprising delicacy, watering a slightly sickly palm tree. You know how cats are about potted plants.
“Ah! And, Citizen Jake, you came by this how?”
“I heard dat crumb-bum…”
“By which you mean Her Serene Highness?”
“She’s a crumb-bum, boss.”
“Indeed so. Motion passes unanimously. To return to the issue at paw: you heard this…?”
“Dat wolf dame tells Miz Tush she’s gonna t’row a party on the boat t’morra. Miz Tush wuz real happy, ‘cause she gotta invite.”
“Hmmmmmm. Just a moment.”
A quick departure, and an equally quick return. “I see no invitation yet, Citizen Jake.”
“Miz Tush an’ th’ wolf dame wuz talkin’ just ‘fore the chocolate went splat.”
Light dawns in Stanley Morgan’s eyes. “Oh. So she might not have sent the invitation out, yet. Busy, one supposes.”
Something else dawns in Phoebe Morgan’s eyes. “Hrmph. Busy out cold, I hope.”
“Phoebe…”
“I’m with Jake, she’s a crumb-bum. Truer words never spoken.”
A small paw is raised.
“The meeting has already passed the motion regarding the status, to wit, crumb-bum, of Her Serene Highness. To move on: we shall assume that my employer’s spouse will accept this invitation. What then?”
Three blank looks meet the roebuck’s eyes, of which only one is habitual.
“Hmmmm. Evidently, this will require inspiration. We table the motion. Also tabled: the matter of Citizen von der Wald. Am I correct?”
Reluctant nods from the horses.
“I guess so, Sergei Ivanovich. I’m sure Phoebe wants anything involving him to be handled gently. Nothing at all like the Princess, if you can help it, right Phoebe?”
“Yes, that’s right, Stanley. Sergei, the gloves are off for Moushaska, but for Henry, it’s Marquess of Queensbury Rules, understand?”
A bow. “It shall require delicate work, but I shall obey.”
With that, the meeting breaks up on a cordial note.
Category All / All
Species Horse
Size 309 x 400px
File Size 35.9 kB
Listed in Folders
“I would be guilty of a gross dissimulation if there was a denial of certain facts regarding recent events in connection with the structural failure of tanks containing foodstuffs, said facts concerning the failure induced by outside agencies of the integrity of such vessels, the induction of which was instigated by the present interlocutor who refers to himself in the first person singular on a habitual basis, and who takes full and complete responsibility for such actions, coming as they did from a mixture of the chivalric impulse and a certain imperative that would be known to Edmund Dantes, and who trusts that certain matters regarding factual revelations will remain in strictest confidence.”
Has Sergei been talking to Lodge?
Has Sergei been talking to Lodge?
More like Sir Humphrey Appleby, from the classic series "Yes, Minister," the episode "Skeletons in the Cupboard," where Sir Humphrey is trying frantically to prevent a long-ago incident of bad contract drafting that he had been responsible.
The identity of the official whose alleged responsibility for this hypothetical oversight has been the subject of recent discussion is not shrouded in quite such impenetrable obscurity as certain previous disclosures may have led you to assume, but, not to put too fine a point on it, the individual in question is, it may surprise you to learn, one whom your present interlocutor is in the habit of defining by means of the perpendicular pronoun.
http://www.veoh.com/watch/v21039345.....n+the+Cupboard
It's one of the classic Nigel Hawthorne bits. 25:45 forward.
(PatB at 20:40, by the way)
The identity of the official whose alleged responsibility for this hypothetical oversight has been the subject of recent discussion is not shrouded in quite such impenetrable obscurity as certain previous disclosures may have led you to assume, but, not to put too fine a point on it, the individual in question is, it may surprise you to learn, one whom your present interlocutor is in the habit of defining by means of the perpendicular pronoun.
http://www.veoh.com/watch/v21039345.....n+the+Cupboard
It's one of the classic Nigel Hawthorne bits. 25:45 forward.
(PatB at 20:40, by the way)
Comments