To retain one's status as a Great Organizer, one must not rest on one's laurels. No, indeed. One must constantly be on the alert for both tactical advantage and the staving off of tactical defeat.

Sergei Ivanovich, in an effort to at least not have things blow up at the get-go, has very thoughtfully provided Xanthippe Tush with one of the long, silken, and non-chocolated scarves that she had purchased on her ill-fated shopping spree. Quiet suggestions are made as to the cooling effects of the night breezes on the ocean. As luck (or timing) would have it, the equitonicals had picked up in strength as the Spontoon water-taxis approached the Polar Sun, so the advice was taken. Not without a comment as to whether or not the roebuck was expecting a tip. A wounding comment; said deer expressed his opinion in part because of professional pride.

For those of our readers who are thinking of purchasing a magnificent yacht from one of the many builders in Kiel or Leghorn that specialize in such things, a word of counsel: always make sure that you have a sufficient platform that can be set up so that your visitors can merely bring their yacht's gigs alongside, step onto a level and dry platform, and graciously ascend a set of wide and safe stairs. A bosun's chair, while very practical, is not conducive to keeping party clothes in trim.

The Polar Sun in particular is provided with a significant platform, which is large enough and sturdy enough to support Her Serene Highness' Hispano-Suiza H6B, when the yacht's crane brings it out of its hold. A major undertaking, that, and provides innocent entertainment for all and sundry during its operation. Tonight, however, the platform is merely the foyer in which a number of distinguished visitors are present.

And some not so distinguished. Stanley Morgan, for one, has once again borrowed evening dress from a friendly acquaintance (this time, a waiter), and thanks to the overwhelmed and harassed major-domo at the foot of the stairs, he is able to take his place in line and ascend to the yacht's main deck.

But indeed, most of the native and visiting High Society present in the Spontoons has been invited, and given the serried rows of ice buckets laden with Pol Roger, a good time is expected to be had by all.

From a discreet distance, this social gathering is being watched by Detective Inspector Franklin J. Stagg of the Spontoon Islands Constabulary. There is an element of melancholy in the operation. The little realm where he was born and raised, New Haven, once was the site of many such a glittering spectacle, before the Revolution of awful memory engulfed it. Ever since then, the whitetail buck has been of the opinion that no good can come from such parties. Granted, this attitude may have been influenced by numerous recent events, but there is still the basic concept in play.

Peering through his powerful binoculars, he catches sight of Her Serene Highness, who is dressed quite nicely, in a simple white gown with attached crepe-de-chine cape. Evidently, she too has been given advice about the night winds off the Spontoons, and has taken in it her own style.

After two or three rations of vodka, she has found her Dutch, or rather Baltic, Courage, and is in the process of receiving her visitors in the fine old style. This requires work, especially when there are unexpected surprises.

Two of these come in the form of Mr. von der Wald and Miss Trotter, causing the wolfess to do a brief, violent double-take, before manners kick in, and they are welcomed on board. A mental note is made to talk this over with the secretary; by which we mean, the secretary will be treated to some class of a loud and prolonged harangue as to how, precisely, the guest-list was constructed.

As luck would have it, this is what was occupying the mind of Moushaska at the very moment that Mr. and Mrs. Tush were presented to her. It was thus a very distracted wolfess that did not notice the jewelry of familiar appearance that was riding on the ample bosom of the sow. It will be recalled that this bosom was, at the moment, discreetly camouflaged by one of the many fine products of the Messrs. Hermes.

Mrs. Tush is not the only one enraptured by the setting. Indeed, even the most jaded of the guests will confess to a certain gentle breeze ruffling the soul. The yacht's orchestra is playing a merry and welcoming tune. The small but extremely efficient galley had produced any quantity of amuse-bouches suitable for vegetarian and carnivore alike, all to the exacting standards of a Paris-trained chef. The champagne is flowing, and the guests are circulating through rooms supplied with deep carpeting and mahogany-paneled walls.

Moushaska's father and brother were both of the opinion that such luxury was needed to uphold the dignity of the state, and more plausibly, to direct temper-tantrums from Her Serene Highness away, to other topics.

All guests having been brought on board, the Princess now moves into the next phase of her operation; namely, circulating among said guests. The constant drumbeat of bows, curtsies and compliments being rendered to her is having almost as much an effect as the distilled spirits she had been drinking. She is soon in mood radiant, and has begun to turn on her charm. Which, under the proper circumstances, is not in the slightest inconsiderable.

From a discreet (and distant) standpoint, this performance is being watched by the Great Organizing Spirit, who has seen this sort of act before. With all the cunning and wariness of his feral counterparts, he manages to circulate in the opposite direction from the owner of the yacht. He has already had one or two very uncomfortable encounters with certain crew-members, which luckily have ended with whispered expressions that he, the roebuck, had a great deal of luck in somehow getting away from the crazy canine. Those, by the way, are not the exact words used; the exact words are somewhat cruder, if more entertaining. But you get the idea.

It is thus that Sergei Ivanovich nearly leaps his own height when a massive paw claps down on his shoulder. A small rack is turned in fright, to be accompanied a few beats later by a frown.

"It is deeply disconcerting, Citizen Jake, to be accosted so. You bear the manner of a gendarme when you do that."

"Hey."

A sigh, partly of relief. Here, there is familiar ground.

"Yes, Citizen?"

"I'm hungry." Yes, definitely familiar ground.

"Yes, though in this case, it is not owing to economics of scarcity. It would interest me to know how much credit had been extended by the local provisioners. Luckily, Citizen Jake, that is not my worry. To return, however, to your current state. A word of counsel: it is not advisable to pounce upon the waiters here and relieve them of entire trays of foodstuffs. For one, it's poor manners. For another, it attracts attention. That, may I suggest, is something that neither of us can afford at the moment."

"We ain't got paid yet, so yeah."

This literal reading of a verbal demarche causes a momentary flutter of emotions in the roebuck, who needs discipline and thinking so as to regain his customary sang-froid, so essential for a Great Organizer.

"So whatcha t'ink I should do, boss?"

"My advice, Citizen Jake, is to place yourself in the vicinity of stairs leading down to the water-taxi platform. You will thus be possessing the strategic high ground, which may be of enormous use to your allies. Namely, me. I foresee the need to make a rapid departure from this setting, and would prefer if my path were clear."

"Awright. But hey! Do me somethin', willya? Send 'round somethin' t'eat."

"I will endeavor to liaise with socially friendly elements to do so, Citizen Jake."

"Hanh?"

"Sure t'ing."

"Oh! Jeez, ya oughta say like dat in the foist place."

"I could, but it causes my soul to weep. Get you Godspeed, Citizen Jake."

This colloquy, which took no more than a few seconds, does have the effect of the Great Organizer missing a critical encounter, which we hereby relate.

While making a triumphant progress through the main salon of the yacht, the Princess Moushaska unexpectedly encounters a familiar muzzle. The last time she had seen this muzzle, she was doing her best to jam a fedora down to its level. Hackles, on one side, are raised. They are lowered, quickly, in embarrassment when it is perceived that the wolf mel is not reciprocating.

Indeed not. Henry von der Wold puts his ankles together, and executes a flawless bow.

"My compliments, Your Highness, on the organization of your party. Both it, and your yacht, put the Morgans to shame." This, we emphasize, are the Morgans of Wall Street, and not of the drawing board. On those Mogans, more anon.

One of the things learned by Her Serene Highness from Billy Joe Greyfoot was the reading of muzzle-expressions. Granted, that was more for the purpose of Texas Hold 'em, but there are other, more practical uses for that knowledge. One of which was to determine whether or not the Wolf of Wall Street was pulling her leg. Not advisable, either metaphorically or (Heaven help us) literally.

But no, the expression is placid, polite and dignified, requiring a response in kind. And, perhaps, a slight flickering of the eyes downward. We have not noted before that Mr. von der Wald is a vigorous proponent of the utility of squash and tennis as recreation and exercise, and his form shows it.

After small small talk, the Princess excuses herself to greet more guests. So runs the excuse. In fact, another, very rarely used portion of her mind has come into play, and the knowledge that she does have such a locus both confuses and excites the wolfess.

It should be noted that femmefurs are very good at reading expressions, even when they are not playing cards. For her part, Phoebe Trotter has witnessed the encounter between her fiancé and her hostess from a discreet distance. While her Henry is as poker-faced as ever, the Princess failed in her efforts to keep her emotions in check.

Surprisingly, the first reaction from the filly is one of anger, that territory is being poached upon. A concept that an owner of a royal estate might well understand. Poachers rarely prosper under such circumstances.

We can only express our feelings of relief when we note that were it not for a passing catamount with an urgent interest in a supply of poached salmon, a waiter with a large supply of throwable food upon throwable plates would have been in the near vicinity of Miss Phoebe Trotter at that very moment.

Said moment without weaponry passing, the filly can only fume as a deeply distracted wolfess walks by without even noticing her. A brief thought is given to tripping the wolfess, but such sordid actions are happily beneath Miss Trotter.

Indeed, all appears quiet in the general strategic sense. From his vantage point some distance away, Inspector Stagg is ruminating that perhaps his precautions were not, after all, necessary. Momentary thought is given to releasing the patrol-furs, in order to effect certain overtime economies. Innate cervine caution counsels him against such a precipitate move. With results that shall soon be seen.

Indeed, the reporter for the Daily Elele, along with her photographer colleague, has already left the Polar Sun, with an eye toward getting a good head-start on tomorrow's first edition, to be filled with glamour and taste. Innate vulpine daring counsels her that such a precipitate move will gain advantage over those blankety-blanks from the Mirror. With results that shall soon be seen.

Meanwhile, the reporter for said Mirror isn't in any mood to leave the party, as he has not had this much to eat and drink, and for free yet, since he left the employ of the his previous newspaper under unhappy circumstances. He and the Mirror photographer, with a cunning that would meet with Sergei Ivanovich's approval, have seized an area of ground near the salon, where passing waiters laden with booze and comestibles pass frequently. Innate feline mooching counsels Michael Mooney not to give up on a good thing, at least until the buffet runs out. With results that shall soon be seen.

Finally, Xanthippe Tush, who is enjoying herself enormously, has abandoned her mate to do what he wants to do; likely, hanging around the bar. A number of mels, and quite a few femmes, have complimented her on her stunning necklace. She has, by now, removed the scarf emplaced over it, on the not illogical grounds that as she is indoors, the night winds no longer are a factor. Innate porcine arrogance counsels her that it's time to show off the new toy given to her by her mate, and to every fur who can possibly see it.

With results that shall be seen, sooner rather than later, as finally, noble wolfess and bourgeois sow meet each other nearly muzzle to muzzle.

Sapphires, we note, are blue; however, given the expression on Moushaska's muzzle, one can well imagine at the moment she is seeing rubies.

A flock of doves that had been roosting on the rigging of the yacht at this moment has chosen to take flight. Wisely.

*****

It is the redoubtable Detective-Sergeant Orrin F.X. Brush who is the first to notice quote "somethin' goin' screwy on dat wolf dame's barge," unquote. Certainly the sight of a number of furs evacuating the saloon of the Polar Sun at high speed is something of a giveaway, but let us give the good rozzer his moment.

Certainly, traffic at this moment can be charitably described as complicated, given that a number of water-taxis are angling for advantage at the dock, and competing with elements of the Spontoon Islands Constabulary for same. At some distance, the reporter and photographer for the Elele are watching the proceedings with a puzzled air, and debating whether a 180-degree turn is advisable.

The temperature of the rhetoric on board the Polar Sun is rather hotter than 180 degrees. In point of fact, it is rapidly reaching the climactic conditions of the yacht's namesake.

As we have alluded to earlier, Princess Moushaska has a certain advantage in these matters, as she is able to bring to bear multiple languages, adding spice and variety to what she is screaming at Xanthippe Tush. The latter, however, is not without her own resources, since she is possessed of a volume of voice that would do credit to the divas at La Scala. Jake, with his knowledge of breath control, would concur.

Speaking of which, the Catamount is standing on the teeming deck, from which all else are doing their damndest to flee. In that, he appears to be a rock of stolid calm. Something of a shame few are noticing.

The saloon, by this time, has been reduced to four individuals. The first two are, of course, Princess Moushaska and Mrs. Tush. At the moment, they are engaged in that fine old sport known as "Indian wrestling," with scant attention paid to decorum.

The audience for this disgraceful display is composed of Phoebe Trotter, who has righted a toppled chair, filled a champagne glass, and is in the process of enjoying two femme-furs going at it in the fine old style; with somewhat less enjoyment, and indeed with a certain trepidation, Sergei Ivanovich has silently padded into the room, bearing in mind the ancient adage regarding places where seraphim and cherubim do not venture.

The language filling the room is certainly enough to make any of the Heavenly Host depart, and quickly.

The first indication the two combatants have that League of Nations class intervention is a-hoof is, well, the sight of two smallish hooves at eye level. This is accompanied by a gentle coughing. Not an indication of malady, but an indication of attention getting.

"Good evening, Madame. I trust the party is going well?"
There is a somewhat brisk and regrettable response to this polite enquiry, which we omit. Which, one supposes, continues the theme of League of Nations intervention. Meanwhile, the wolfess, who is twisted away from the roebuck owing to the leg-strength of the Vassar-educated sow, is swiveling her ears frantically, attempting to discern where, precisely, she has heard that voice before.

"I am not able to go there, Madame. The locality you specify is one that is designed to instill the fear of God, and since there is no God, there must be no place that you describe. Quod erat demonstradum. Might I suggest, Madame, two plans of action?"

By now, Xanthippe Tush is rather winded, as is the Princess, and are thus at least partially amenable to diplomacy.

Silence, blessed silence, being taken as an invitation to elucidate, the Great Organizer does so.

"In the first instance, Madame, I suggest that you restore that which you are wearing to Her Serene Highness. La propriete, c'est la vol, of course, but I do not feel the local constabulary is conversant in the finer points of French anarchism. It would thus be advisable to avoid awkward questions."

"What's your second bit of advice?"

"I suggest a tactical retreat at flank speed, leaving the battlefield to your opponent. It would be best, at this juncture, to cut your losses before matters escalate."

"Can you give me ANY reason why I should let this __________ have MY necklace?"

The sow's question is answered by a bright flash from the saloon doorway. Produced, it should be noted, by the bulb of a Speed Graphic, the property of a staff photographer of the Spontoon Mirror. His colleague is busy writing in a notepad, which is slightly difficult, owing to the attempt to balance a pawful of canapés while engaged in that task.

"I cannot, Madame...others, however..."

With a grunt of alarm, the combatants disengage. Unluckily for her, Princess Moushaska has managed to position herself directly underneath a rather heavy table, and in her haste to get to her footpads, she finds herself in short order flat on her muzzle, in a somewhat undignified posture.

The necklace is hurriedly removed, and placed on a silver salver among the detritus of the buffet. A dome is firmly planted atop, removed, a sprig of parsley placed in the middle of the jewels, and then closed over once again.

"Your water-taxi, Madame, awaits."

With as much dignity as any fur can muster under the circumstances, Xanthippe Tush marches out of the saloon, nose in the air.

Phoebe Trotter drains the last of her champagne, and approaches the members of the Fourth Estate.

"One hundred pounds for that photo and your notebook."

The reporter, who like many in his profession rarely sees bills of large denomination, is all for entering into negotiation, until a sharp elbow from his comrade, with an eye, perhaps, for international bylines, dissuades him.

"One hundred and fifty."

The Great Organizer, with a sigh indicating that he appreciates the finer points of High Finance, turns, and departs to follow his mistress. The members of the press depart, to be followed by the filly, who is slowly increasing her offers. Alas, this is convincing the gentlefurs that they're on to something important, and they begin to eye each other with a certain gleam.

By this time, the deck of the Polar Sun is mostly clear, save for orchestra members picking up scattered sheet-music, various attendants starting to break out the brooms and garbage pans, and a few assorted furs milling about. That might do an injustice to Jake, who has retained his position by the raising, a fact not lost upon the roebuck. Also not lost upon the roebuck is the imminent arrival of Detective-Inspector Stagg, who is slowly and painfully making his way up the ladder. His rack announces his presence.

Gazing with a thoughtful air, out to see, is Henry von der Wald, who is waiting patiently for his fiancée. Waiting with somewhat less patience is Xanthippe Tush, who is tapping a trotter with great impatience upon the deck, and tossing occasional snarled comments at Sergei Ivanovich, who is surveying the scene with a coup-de-oeil air.

Granted, Phoebe Trotter's appearance does "strike the eye," since she is fresh, unhurried, and indeed in a pleasant state of mind, having witnessed the likely humiliation of a fur she doesn't like, and a Vassar fur. We have omitted to mention before that Phoebe is a product of Radcliffe. We regret the omission.

Inspector Stagg has just gained the deck, has firmly planted his cane upon its surface, and is about to make the well-known enquiry of "What's all this, then?" (presumably at a higher plane), when Events Occur.

Namely, a yell of outrage, followed by the imminent appearance of Princess Moushaska, head throbbing from a mixture of vodka and mayhem. She surveys the scene through bloodshot eyes.

Her gaze falls upon not the police detective, nor upon her recent combatant, nor even upon the filly she recently gave a sea-water bath to. No, it falls upon the furson of the Great Organizer, who is meeting the challenge with paws behind back and upraised eyebrow.

It is the eyebrow that does it. Nobility is not used to the peasantry meeting it with raised fist, let alone raised eyebrow, and the charge is made.

A better eye for the battlefield would have been a good idea, alas. An overlooked, empty champagne bottle, one of many strewn about, has both by Providence, and the gentle nudging of a cervine hoof, been placed squarely in the path of Moushaska.

Footpad meets bottle.

"For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

Wolfess becomes airborne.

"A body in motion tends to stay in motion"

Wolfess meets large object, namely, catamount. Both furs, propelled the sheer energy of the action, tumble over the railing of the yacht, and make the rapid plunge to the water, accompanied by a mighty splash.

Peering over the side, the Great Organizer intones with, ironically enough, gravity: "A body at rest tends to stay at rest."

First into action is, somewhat surprisingly for a rather cautious fur, the wolf mel. Mr. von der Wald has, with an alacrity that slightly surprises Phoebe Trotter, stripped off his jacket, pants, collar and boiled shirt, and has dived over the side of the yacht, bent on rescue.

His audience perceives that he is not only an expert in tennis, but evidently one not at all unfamiliar with swimming pools.

Inspector Stagg turns from this gratifying display of chivalry to find that the audience has diminished by two. Namely, Mrs. Tush and Sergei Ivanovich, who can be seen in the back of a water-taxi, headed back to Casino Island. With an exasperated snort, the detective can only make a mental note to have a conversation as soon as possible.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Phoebe Trotter is standing before the buck, very politely. "If you need to speak with me, Detective, here is my hotel room. I will be there for some days, since I'm SUPPOSED to be married here." She proceeds to descend the ship's ladder with panache and dignity, though without an immediate prospect of a water-taxi.

Sergeant Brush, meanwhile, is pinching his eyebrows. "Awright, fer the lovea...what ELSE is gonna happen?"

O ye who ask rhetorical questions. In answer comes the form of Harold Tush, who is gamely assisting not one, but two, furs. Namely, the staff of the Spontoon Mirror, who are each holding their heads gingerly.

The photographer, in particular, is peeved. "Some bum's got my camera! They sapped me when I wasn't looking, and snagged it!"

Greatly unfortunate, since this particular discussion is interrupted by a truly moving sight, one that should have been immortalized in photography. A sopping-wet princess is being hauled over one very muscular lupine shoulder, crepe-de-chine cape trailing like a flag of surrender. In a manner quite out of character, Moushaska is not struggling.

This may have something to do with the fact that the action of sea-water has turned the Sulka undershirt and boxers of Henry von der Wald nearly translucent, and given her a view from her vantage point...well, a wolfess is a wolfess for a' that, as the poet wrote.

A helpful steward points the way to the Princess' bedroom, and collects the wolf mel's clothing with an eye toward restoring them soon enough.

Meanwhile, Jake has finally emerged from the sea, bearing a large clump of seaweed on his nose. He stands, contrite, before the two detectives, who silently look to the heavens, and dismiss with weary paws.

Phoebe Trotter's vigil is rewarded by the arrival of an outrigger canoe, manned by Stanley Morgan. Like his rival, he has removed his jacket, collar and shirt, and is also showing off a physique one does not ordinarily associate with artists of limited means. A grin, a tossed off salute, and an indication that the canoe is built for two are presented.

"Where to, miss?"

His audience is appreciative of the sight, the timely arrival, and the care in which lady horse is helped into the boat, and seated.

Right above the jacket, which at the moment is concealing a Speed Graphic camera.