By this time, a rather disenchanted Detective-Inspector Franklin J. Stagg can be seen vigorously rubbing at his eyebrows. To those in the know at HQ, this is the functional equivalent of a screaming, rug-chewing episode by certain dictators in Central European chancelleries.

There is not a little sympathy for the buck, as recent days have shown there to be as much excitement (for value of that word thereof) since the salad days of Reginald Buckhorn, when that worthy by himself caused vast accumulations of experience in the islands' otherwise tiny riot squad.

It was with decidedly mixed emotions that the Great Organizer saw the forces of Law and Order hove into view. Contrary as these were to his general weltanschuung, there was still something to be said for pawcuffs, versus a different type of cuff, that administered by a broken parasol to the side of the head.

Citizen Jake, ambling in during the middle of the proceedings, is distracted by attempting to see what is at the bottom of the picnic basket, and is thus taken without resistance, officially as a "material witness."

The analysis of a constable, to the effect that the whole lot of "Euros" ought to be chucked into custody for the benefit of the sanity of all and sundry, may be have been unintentionally influential.

Her Serene Highness expresses indignation that she, too, should be arrested, though it is pointed out that at the very least her state of attire violates the local ordinances of Casino Island. There is, of course, also the matter of her motor-car, which has apparently narrowly missed a party of surprised fisherfurs, who may have been aware that April showers bring May flowers, but not multi-ton, straight-six engined automobiles. Lastly, there is the matter of the vigorous assault on Pavel Ivanovich Chichikoff.

The pronouncement of this name by Inspector Stagg, with a sharp sidelong glance at the small roebuck, indicates to the latter that in certain respects, that particular game is up. A real name is demanded, followed by a warning finger.

"Do not try Rodion Raskolnikoff, Lev Myshkin, or any Karamazoffs that you care to name."

Provoking an observation -- deeply unfair, it is to be noted -- that the whitetail buck is nekulturny, followed by a tactical silence.

The party of wolfess, catamount and roebuck are marched off to a handy dock, to be conveyed to Meeting Island.

Aside from some interested players also watching the proceedings, including Mr. von der Wald and his (still current) fiancée, who have suspended discussions for the nonce, there is one other witness to this matter.

Namely, a messenger-fur who is bearing a large buff envelope addressed to "Sergei Ivanovich," c/o Harold Tush, Shepherd's Hotel.

*****

Accommodations in the Spontoon Islands are at a premium during peak season. This applies with equal force to the spacious suites atop Shepherd’s Hotel as it does to the “genuine native huts” that can be found in the establishments of furs that have never heard of the Guide Michelin.

The concept applies even to those rooms that are available for free on Meeting Island. We refer to the block of jail cells in the cellar of the Constabulary building, one of the few inheritances from the British colonial days that has been embraced by the native government.

There are two banks of seven cells, each seating two, as well as a substantial cell facing the entrance to the block, normally used to detain furs that have enthusiastically refreshed themselves well, if not wisely. With the exception of what Detective Inspector Stagg refers to as “Bacchus Suite” (there’s a deer who likes his Bullfinch’s Classical Mythology), each cell sleeps (as well as seats) two, furnished with homely straw pelisse, bucket of water, bucket of something else, and small barred window near the ceiling, with splendid views of the grass around the facility.

On this balmy evening on Meeting Island, there were few spaces going begging in durance vile. The habitués of the Bacchus Suite were present in force, taking their ease where they could, mostly by leaning at uncomfortable angles against the bars and walls. A few were holding on with desperation to the floor.

The 118th meeting of the Spontoon and Rain Island Syndicate of Robbers, Thieves and Footpads was underway, with a vigorous post mortem underway regarding recent events with which you, the reader, have been made aware of. The Chairman was engaged in a side discussion with Madame Kop (who was in splendid isolation in her own cell, as befits a lady) as to the drafting of a sternly-worded resolution demanding a cessation of the durian pudding that seemed to form a staple of the jailhouse diet.

With four and one-half cells occupied by the organized crime sector, this left some room for a group of sailors who, while previously engaged in a noisy punch-up in a waterfront saloon, were now peacefully engaged in smoking pipes and otherwise taking their leisure. Old campaigners, these sons of the sea.

There was one cell open and free, which was a stroke of fortune for the Great Organizer and Ally, not to mention Her Serene Highness the Princess Moushaska. The wolfess certainly thought so, and marched to the open jail cell, waiting by it with tapping foot, crossed paws and angrily swishing tail.

The warder, a police dog who had held his position for a number of years and was not unused to obstreperous prisoners, brandished his key ring and glared at the royal.

“Not there. Over there.” “There,” in this case, being the cell occupied by the springbok femme.

“CHTO?!” No translation appeared to be necessary for this expression of disagreement. “You wish me to share a cell?!”

“You aren’t any prize yourself, darling.” Madame Kop had propped herself up with one elbow on her bed, and was critically examining the wolfess. Granted, given the current state of wardrobe of the wolfess (lack, thereof), there was much to examine.

The sailors had crowded to the bars of their cells, and one avian was attempting to stick his head between the bars to get a better look. It was clear that, in contrast to the jewel thieves (who were discussing which Mrs. Burrows to call for assistance), the nautical profession was taking a keen interest in Her Serene Highness’ condition.

While it took some interval, the members of the fraternity of the bottle eventually noticed the new arrival. Some were of the impression that a line not dissimilar to the famed Sextette from Florodora were present, and a ragged chorus of “Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Are There Any More at Home Like You?)” reared its head.

Nearly forgotten in verbal melee that was starting to erupt, courtesy of the Princess’ lack of appreciation for the best in American musical comedy, was the roebuck and catamount. To the surprise of the roebuck, it was Jake that stirred, poking a large, meaty finger at the shoulder blade of the warder.

“Hey.”

The warder was glad of any fur that seemed to show respect, however inartfully expressed.

“Give the dame the cell. I’ll crash on de floor.”

This unexpected chivalric sally was immediately pounced upon by Her Serene Highness, who began to point at the empty cell. As this cell facing it was occupied by sailors, there was an enthusiastic second for this motion.

The Syndicate members, by unanimous voice vote (expressed vigorously) asserted their rights of seniority to any open cell, and registered disapproval of any favouritism shown on the basis of class.

From the drunk tank came the dulcet tones indicating that “Oh! You Beautiful Doll” was now leading the hit parade.

Many opinions were expressed, but while Man proposes, God disposes. God, in this case, was the warder, who with night-stick on cell bars indicated that expressed preferences were out of order, and that quiet was desired. Not in so many words. Rather fewer, and crisper, words in point of fact.

Her Serene Highness was pushed into the unofficial ladies’ cell with a force that caused her to totter slightly on a pair of recovered high heels, as if in grips of a brisk wind. (Which would, in her present condition, have been keenly felt.)

The cat and the roebuck, for their part, were placed in the open cell, and the door clanged behind them. The sound moved Sergei Ivanovich to poetry.

“Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage…”

The warder was having little of it. “They don’t hurt. Now zip it.”

Relative quiet descended on the cell block, as the drunks could not immediately settle on another song with which to serenade the Princess, and contented themselves with low, tuneless humming.

A rather plump bovine femme waddled in, carrying something over the crook of her arm. She stopped in front of the Ladies’ Accommodation.

‘ere you are, love! Don’t want you catching the death of a cold, eh?”

It was obviously a close-run thing, whether Her Serene Highness was more appalled by the form of address, or the form of the outfit she was being presented with. It seemed to be of some unknown vintage, was constructed from something that looked very much like shocking pink and green mattress ticking, possessed some stains of (thankfully) unknown provenance, and bore its maker’s mark, “SIC” in shakily drawn faded grey letters on the back.

Stumped for a reply in detail, Moushaska could only point a quavering finger at the uniform and demand its size.

“Ooooooh, don’t know about that, love. It says ‘ere that one size fits all, don’t it?”

Her Serene Highness expressed in violent terms her disbelief in the notion that any article of clothing could or should be made so that one size fitted all, and added in addendum that she would not wear the proffered item for any sum of money that could be named, particularly in light of the fact that she had no idea where it had recently been, and that she was sure it was someplace disgusting. This was followed by a detailed suggestion as to the use the uniform could be put to.

The wardess looked the Princess up and down, from high heels, past stockings, up to other articles, and back down again.

“Cheek!” And with that, the offer was withdrawn.

The cellmate of Moushaska, who was well-schooled in the tropes sold to the masses by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer prison films, inquired politely (and sarcastically) as to whether her cellmate had a mouthpiece. The Princess, who was not so well versed in popular culture, could only splutter an answer to the effect that she was not a pugilist, but that she would be delighted to take up the art of self-defence, starting with present company, at any time present company chose to name.

Mr. Buran of the Syndicate, who had been in Petrograd in 1917 and had never entirely lost the anti-aristocratic spirit of those exciting times, at this point began to croon the “Internationale.” In counterpoint, the sailors began to sing a sea shanty of dubious reputation. Both triggered some wine (?) soaked vocal efforts from the large cell.

The resulting cross-fire of noise offended two furs: one, the Princess, and the other, the Great Organizing Spirit. The latter manifested his displeasure with a tapping of a tin water cup against the bars of the cell, in the approved manner of the Philharmonic. There was a gradual die-down of hub-bub, and even the Syndicate ceased its drafting of a resolution appointing a Prisoners’ Aid representative.

“Thank you. I make the observation that the gentlefur singing of "Manila Mary" has a resonant bass. Will you please give me, in the key of “C,” the sound of a bell. The sound of “dom-dom” will suffice.”

The sailor complied, and curfew rang out in the cell block.

“Splendid. I perceive there are three tenors in our distinguished company at the end of the hall. Will you gentlefurs follow the example of our sea-borne friend and sound?”

A carillon of three tenor notes followed. Somewhat unexpectedly, two members of the syndicate chimed in with baritone notes, before being cut off by the tin cup against the bars.

“Thank you. I will have it known that I conduct this orchestra, and no other fur. Now then: let us hear the bells in sequence, please.”

“Dom-dom-dom-DOM (DOM) DIM-dom-dam-dom (DOM).”

“Highly satisfactory. Now then.”

Sergei Ivanovich tapped out time with the tin cup, and the cell block began to ring with the sound of the bells, with all but the Princess (who stuffed two fingers in her ears) paying rapt attention. With appropriate gestures, the roebuck began to sing, in a high, pleasant tenor. We hereby append a partial transcript:

Вечерний звон, вечерний звон!
(Dom-dom-dom-dom!)
(Shut up!)
Как много дум наводит он
(Dom-DOM-dom-dom-DOM!)
(Stop this row at once!)
О юных днях в краю родном,
(Dom-DOM-DOM-dom)
(You filthy load of vagabonds!)
Где я любил, где отчий дом,
(Dom-dom-dim-dom. DOM)
(GUARD!)
И как я, с ним навек простясь,
(DOM-DOM-DOM-dom, DOM)
[Reference in Russian to mothers omitted]
Там слушал звон в последний раз!
[Detailed reference in Russian to mothers omitted]

A wave of nostalgia washed over Mr. Buran, who had never quite forgotten his puppyhood in Novgorod. A baritone voice soon joined that of the cervine tenor for the second verse of “Those Evening Bells.”

Upstairs, the conversation of a group of constables died down, and ears began to swivel. The duty sergeant, with a fine sense of opportunity, picked up the telephone and dialed a number.

Detective Inspector Stagg, in his office, found himself murmuring Ivan Kozloff’s words as well. He considered, but rejected, the idea to send down a request for “Dark Eyes.” No balalaika, after all, on the premises.

The only furs who did not join in the applause a few minutes later, when the song had finished, were Her Serene Highness (who was busily shaking her fists at all and sundry), and Jake, who was leaning against the wall with a distant and unusually thoughtful look. When temporary silence descended, and before the Princess could seize the floor, the catamount stepped up. In a few moments, the cell block was filled with a resonant tenor. The builders of the Meeting Island Jail knew more about acoustics than they ever dreamed.

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,

List while I woo thee with soft melody;

Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea

Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelei;

Over the streamlet vapors are borne,

Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,

E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;

Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

The applause this engendered was near-universal (save for the wolfess, who had her arms folded across her chest), and there was a call for an encore. The cat gave a lopsided and shy grin, shuffled his feet, furrowed his brows, and resumed.

I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Borne like a vapor on the sweet summer air;
I see her tripping where the bright streams play,
Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.
Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour,
Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er:
I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

I long for Jeanie with the day-dawn smile,
Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile;
I hear her melodies, like joys gone by,
Sighing round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die:
Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain,
Waiting for the lost one that comes not again:
I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low,
Never more to find her where the bright waters flow.

I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed,
Far from the fond hearts round her native glade;
Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,
Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.
Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore
While her gentle fingers will cull them no more:
Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

Upstairs, the attention of the desk sergeant was sought, in vain, by a heavily mustached red deer, who was shushed by the gathering of constables. The desk sergeant passed a note to the deer, who nodded, swiveled his ears, and continued to listen.

The strains of “Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground” soon drifted up from the cellar. Not a song familiar to most of the furs, but its effects were just the same.

And so the impromptu concert continued, deep into the night.