From the strictly gaming standpoint, the afternoon at the Grand Casino is as profitable as the previous one, with the same number of counterparties (read: suckers) ready to be shorn by Moushaska.

From a more social standpoint, not so profitable.

A few more venturesome furs, who in all fairness must be noted as having refreshed themselves well, if not wisely, have addressed comments to the wolfess of what might be described as an "uproarious" nature.

If these had been ventured within, say, a twenty-file mile radius of her father's castle, there would be paid that currency generally rendered as "infernal." However, as Herr Nerzmann the bookseller has noted, the Spontoon Islands are far more egalitarian.

Besides, there are no deep, underground, medieval donjons available, for purchase or for rent.

Therefore, Her Serene Highness must take the comments with frozen-muzzle hauteur, which to a certain extent wins her points from more fair-minded furs, who think that more than a few of the remarks overstep the bounds. Cold comfort, of course. At least it comes with cold, hard cash, in the high four figures.

Not enough to replace a favourite toy; certainly repairs are out of the question. When queried by a member of the Polar Sun's crew, one of the aircraft mechanics who had inspected the wreckage flippantly suggested calling in an expert on fixing concertinas. The commander of the yacht, in an abundance of caution, has decided that it would be wise not to repeat this comment, in so many words.

In any event, as the dinner hour arrives, the management of the Grand, in gratitude for providing a "draw," has offered the wolfess a first-class dinner, multiple courses, with appropriate vintages. Since this is an item known in the trade as a "comp," the wolfess, with an eye for the practical, has taken up the management on the offer, and closes the table.

Her departure is met, as she leaves, with what can ironically be referred to as a "wolf-whistle," directed at her tail-fur. (Which is, it is to be noted, a splendid specimen of the type.)

Even without the benefit of the words "Niagara Falls" following this action, the wolfess stops, turns very slowly, and crests enough to show the full benefit of her dental work.

The fur who made the musical comment on her pulchritude is nowhere to be found. Or, at least, no one drops the nickel on him (her?). She turns smartly on her heel, parade ground fashion, and marches out of the gaming room, nose firmly in the air.

A hurried conference of the members of the management involves the drawing of straws, and the short straw is drawn by one particularly unlucky, junior member of the staff. One suspects that fine old pugilistic tradition known as "the fix." In any event, he departs, to return five minutes later, wearing a significant ration of oxtail soup on his head, which is making an already soft collar more soft yet.

"Yes, she's still angry. She also wants some information as to private gaming clubs on the Islands."

There is a further hurried conference, to which the hotel's concierge is invited in the role of an expert. Thankfully, this worthy has the information at his mephitic finger-claws, after the grand manner of his profession. The junior, over emphatic protests, is sent back to the Princess with this intelligence.

He returns, bearing the fish course about his ears.

"Her Serene Highness thanks us for the information, and requests that we make suitable arrangements."

*****

The Great Organizer and companion have made their own arrangements in the suite of their employers, at Shepherd's. It is in the nature of an exhibition of Art, though it is also in the nature of a one-fur show.

Jake is in the not terribly onerous position of accepting direction from Sergei Ivanovich as to the proper placement of each drawing, for maximum advantage. This does require some back-and-forth movement, but even to the untutored eye of the catamount, there does seem to be Method.

"Dat drawin' of th' sable dame is th' nuts, boss."

Indeed, it is the one work that has not shifted during the entire proceeding. The roebuck appears to be building the exhibition around it.

"Do you think so, Citizen Jake? Your opinion is of great interest to me on this matter."

"Surest t'ing ya now, boss. She's lookin' real quiet-like, and dat's some soft tail-fur she got, don't she?"

"You have touched it with a needle, Citizen. Very often, the quiet and contemplative triumphs over the loud."

An observation that proves ironic, in one sense, as there is a sudden trumpeted enquiry that cuts through the air like a scimitar.

"What's all this junk doing around here?!?"

Xanthippe Tush waddles into the main room, or perhaps main gallery, and peers, squint-eyed, at the display. It is also evident that she has borne through the shock of the earlier part of the day with a certain ration of liquid comfort, as her waddling gait is none the steadiest.

"Dis ain't junk, lady: it's Art." This surprising pronouncement from the feline brings the sow up somewhat short, as if a denizen of the remotest Amazon had chosen to take issue with a Fourth Leader in the Times. It takes some bleary moments to respond.

"Well, what's it doing cluttering up my room?"

"We're lookin' at it, ain't we?" The surprising force of this statement causes an eyebrow to be raised by the Great Organizer, but triggers no interference. He wishes to see where this is going.

"You drew all this stuff, stupid?"

"No, lady. A pal of ours dunnit. He's real talented, ain't he?"

Somewhat unsteady steps are taken, and the drawings, sketches and paintings pass in review. One hopes not in multiples, but there are suspicions.

A slightly shaking trotter is pointed. "That's a [hic] nice drawing, there."

"Th' boss t'inks so, too!"

The fact that the sow has unerringly picked out "Sable with a Book" is met with mixed feelings by the roebuck. On the one paw, it shows that there is some forlorn corner of Xanthippe Tush's soul that remains natural and unsullied, and capable of appreciating Higher Things. On the other paw, and here is where the catamount tells a definite truth, it is the Great Organizer's favorite.

Some puzzled thought. "My mate Stanley thinks so?"

A quick and alert pressing of hoof down upon tawny foot drops an unsubtle hint to Jake that the burden of conversation has passed.

"We have discussed the matter of artwork with Citizen Tush, previously, and it was with an eye toward continuing this conversation that we arranged the display you see here. He has a keen interest in this segment of the Lively Arts, from a professional standpoint. He said that you, Citizeness, do as well."

A pair of hiccoughs serve as an indication of agreement of some kind, before maudlin sentiment takes over.

"I used to be pretty. [Hic.] When I was a lot younger."

The look of doubt that crosses Jake's face, honest truth-telling cat he is, is quickly squelched by a timely elbow to the ribs.

"I used to look like that. When I was [hic] at Vassar."

Given that at the moment a shaking finger is pointing toward a picture of a brawny fisherfur hauling in a net, this seems somewhat unlikely. Not the sort of thing one sees in that part of the Hudson River Valley.

"But now look at me! I'm FAT!"

At this point, the previously supplied photograph, crumpled and evidently tear-stained, is thrust before the Great Organizer, rather in the way feral cats are known to present dead feral rodents. The reaction this produces is certainly the same.

"Make it [hic] go 'way, shorty. Make [hic] it go 'way."

While Sergei Ivanovich is of a definite mind to insist that his name and patronymic be used, he also senses that the long-awaited opening is at paw.

"Perhaps, Madame, you need a diversion to take your mind off things. Might I suggest, perhaps, a breakfast tomorrow with the artist?" The current condition of the sow is contemplated. "A late breakfast might be in order." He is under no illusions, based on own experience, as to the likely state of affairs at dawn tomorrow.

"[Hic]. Is he handsome?"

"Who is, Madame?"

"The artist."

"How do you know the artist is a gentlefur?"

"H-h-he's signed his name, right there." And truth be told, she has well-spotted that, as confirmed by a close look.

"So he has, Madame."

"So is he cute? [Hic]"

"I think, Madame, you ask the wrong fur. Citizen Jake, any commentary on the matter?"

"What, me?"

"You answer to Citizen Jake, do you not?"

"Yeah. But any guy what says anudder guy is cute is sorta...well...y'know..."

Xanthippe Tush blurts out a word that would be hurtful in certain quarters of pre-1933 Berlin, which causes the roebuck to wince, slightly.

"Yes, well. That is neither here nor there. Citizen Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"I believe that you should put our mistress to bed."

"Why me?!?"

This unexpected bit of rebellion, mild as it is, earns a Stern Look of Command. "Because in the first instance, Citizen, you are much bigger and more blessed with muscles than I am. In the second instance, I am much smaller and more blessed with brains than you are. This second point is of importance, as urgent consultations are in order which require my attention. Meet me in the Long Bar downstairs in one half hour."

A glance is thrown back at the still weaving sow. "If you are not back in one-half hour, I shall send a rescue party, Citizen Jake. And fear not, Citizeness! Place the matter of this photograph in my paws, and I am sure that I will be able to dispose of the matter discreetly."

With that, an exit is made, hurriedly, stage right.

*****

Some ninety minutes later, a secret conference is underway. Fittingly, it is at the same remote beach where stallion first encountered roebuck some days previously. Progress is reported, to the point where an as-yet unexecuted, two page agreement (obtained from a somewhat relieved and refreshment-involved Harold Tush, in the aforementioned Long Bar) is presented for the match-assisted perusal of Stanley Morgan.

"The Friday Review?"

"I am not familiar, to be sure, with that august journal, Citizen Morgan. And my distinguished colleague, Citizen Jake, remains steadfastly loyal to the Nursery Weekly. However, I am reliably informed that your heart-warming drawing of a sable femme is very much what the intelligent reader wants to see in his evening mail."

A few more matches are struck, and other clauses are examined. "All rights to be assigned to Tush Publications, Ltd. Compensation, $150." He eyes the confederates with cynical amusement. "So, as my agent, how much of that is yours?"

"Dere ain't no charge, see? It's all fer t'good fer you an' Miz Trotter."

The match is extinguished, and darkness falls again as the contract is handed back.

"I'll say this for you two. At least you've gotten me the break I asked for. You say that Mrs. Tush will probably sign this tomorrow morning?"

"At breakfast, yes. Black tie not required, of course."

"Yeah. Well, see if you can get me a linen suit like you're wearing."

"Duly noted, Citizen. But you seem oddly downcast at this, your moment of professional triumph."

There is a long interval of silence, before the horse speaks, sadly. "That's true, but even if this contract is just the start, and not a one-off...I mean, $150 even with no commission isn't going to get me much, even in Greenwich Village."

"There is the matter of capital, is there not?"

"Put that way, Sergei: yes. You know, I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I don't blame Phoebe's parents one bit. She absolutely deserves the best. She's game enough to live in a fourth-floor walk-up, cold-water flat, but I can't give her that. It's not right."

A half-smile and a glance. "Care to give that an ideological analysis, Sergei?"

The Great Organizer is, for once, stuck for an answer, as he gloomily considers the matter. The silence is broken by the soft sound of a fist hitting equine shoulder, gently.

"Hey." The action is repeated. "Hey!"

"What's that, Jake?"

"You ain't givin' up, are ya? Only a crumb-bum would give up, now."

"But Jake, what can I do? You know any way of getting my paws on a lot of money? Fast? And legally?"

Something new dawns, even in the darkness. A look of cunning crosses Jake Greenmount's face. This is not unnoticed by the Great Organizer, who plants a small cervine fist against feline midsection.

"To coin a phrase, "hey." You have evidently stumbled across something, Citizen Jake, and it is your sworn duty to, as I believe the phrase runs, "come across.""

The two interlocutors are beckoned closer.

"I know stuff, see? Boss, y'remember dat picnic?"

"If you open up my chest, Citizen Jake, upon my heart will be etched the word "picnic." Pray go on, you interest me strangely."

"Dere was a little guy, see? Th' guy what drove dat crumb-bum's car."

"Crumb-bum?"

"An allusion to Her Serene Highness, the Princess Moushaska, whose face and certain other parts of her anatomy are known to thousands in these islands. But I interrupt. Proceed."

"See, after I got t'ru putting dat Tush dame t'bed, an' when I was goin' out t'catch up wit' youse two. I passed by a big fancy desk, see?"

"Hmm. The one where a rather self-important fur stands, more importantly, one that has a pair of crossed-keys on his lapel?"

"Dat's de baby, yeah. Anyhow, dat little guy, th' driver, see? He's jawin' wit' dis guy, findin' out stuff fer th' wolf dame. Where th' action is, see?"

The horse has now cantered his ears forward, listening intently.

"And by action, Jake, you mean...?"

"I'm t'inkin' it ain't wolf mels, she's lookin' fer. She's already got dat." A baleful chuckle. "No, I'm figgerin' dat dat wolf dame's lookin' fer a game. An' I don't mean Chinese Checkers."

"But," opines the stallion, "you can get a game in at any of the casinos here on the island. In fact, there's been rumours she's already getting up a game."

"Heaven forfend, Citizen Morgan. But surely she hasn't been banned, yet?"

"For what?"

"Card sharping, card counting, hot decks, that sort of thing."

"Oh, you know of those, do you?"

"Citizen, with all due modesty, I can assure you that I could take a plain, ordinary sealed deck of cards and within moments, have the Jack of Spades jump out of the deck and squirt cider in your ear."

"Squirt cider in my ear?"

"Do you like the phrase? I once assisted at the oldest established permanent floating crap game in New York, where that colourful phrase was bandied about. I've often itched for a chance to use it. But we digress. Assume, for the sake of argument, that the Princess Moushaska is like Alexander, weeping for she has no more worlds to conquer. Where, and here I quote from my former employers again, where is the action, where is the game?"

Two heads turn to the catamount, who flattens his ears and bows his head.

"I dunno, boss."

Morgan, however, is not so defeated. "Hmmm. It's got to be pretty high-class. Otherwise, the Princess wouldn't go there, even in disguise. Also, you have to figure that a concierge at a fancy hotel wouldn't steer a customer to a clip joint, not if he cares about his reputation."

"Sound reasoning from first principles, Citizen."

"Tonight, you think?"

Here, it is the turn of the roebuck to look cunning. "If I may, Citizen, I think that unlikely. I have inside information on the subject. Her Serene Highness is often asset-rich and cash-poor, in the manner of overextended capitalists everywhere. Crises of liquidity occur. No, no, if I am any judge in the matter, she is marshaling her forces, so that when she meets this high-class game, which presumably is not being held at the Biltmore garage, she can make the proverbial killing."

A sage nod, but also a furrowed brow.

"Hey. Hey, you t'inkin', Stanley?"

"Yes. Yes, I am, Jake. I'm thinking I may want to find out about this place on my own account."

"You are familiar with games of chance, Citizen? You display untold and unplumbed depths."

"Come across on a cattle-boat, Sergei, and you learn all sorts of things. I've seen the Jack of Spades squirt cider in a mel's ear, to be sure, and I know quite a few things. I'll need to sell more than a single pencil drawing, though."

"Hey. Hey, boss?"

"Yes, Citizen?"

"Can I have a word wit' youse, private-like, a minnit?"

"Will you excuse us, Citizen Morgan? A sidebar is requested."

"I'll be here, Sergei."

Some steps to the side. "Hey," comes a husky whisper, "ain't you got some dough what belongs t'me?"

"Yes, that is so, Citizen Jake. And what is more, I am already some steps ahead of you, as you will perceive I have envelope in paw. 480 Spontoon pounds, which represents our combined capital and working funds, save some other incidentals that have been advanced by our generous employer. By my estimation, a little short of 575 pounds, which the newspapers inform me is roughly 2,500 American dollars."

"Y'wanna stake him?"

"Do you trust him, Citizen Jake, is the most important question?"

"He ain't a crumb-bum."

"Given your unerring judgement before in what constitutes such a state of crumb-bum, I am inclined to accept your analysis, more so since it coincides with my own. There is a tide in the affairs of furs, Citizen Jake, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Why are you looking down at your footpads like that?"

"I don't like gettin' wet, boss. I'm a cat, remember?"

A soft sigh. "Add to your list of acquisitions, Citizen Jake, a book of familiar quotations. In any event, let us rejoin our comrade in arms, and provide him with the sinews of war."

This, in fact, takes some doing, as there is resistance on the basis of principle. It takes a mighty use of the dialectic to convince Stanley Morgan that while neither a borrower nor a lender be is a sound and statesfur-like policy, exceptions from time to time can and should be made.

Business having been concluded, paws are shaken all around, and promises made of a linen suit of sufficient fit, down to rose in lapel.

As the Great Organizer pads into the lobby of Shepherd's Hotel, he muses.

"Three furs in linen suits and roses in their lapel. Set it to music, Citizen Jake, and we have in embryo the makings of a super-production. All we need is...Citizen Jake, I perceive that you are not listening to my ruminations. You wound me."

"Th' guy at th' front desk is wavin' at us, boss. See?"

"I do. My apologies, Citizen Jake. Your attention to duty is exemplary. Let us see what that worthy requires of us."

As it turns out, the acceptance of an envelope.

"What's LYRC, boss?"

"Hmmm! Judging from the newspapers I have read, that is one of the radio stations here in the Islands. You recall that concert?"

"Th' one where I got tossed out on me nut?"

"Quite. Sponsored, if I'm not mistaken, by that very same station. Well, what do the contents portend?"

The contents are reviewed, with some puzzlement. "Some guy named Curveball wants I should go dere t'morra mornin'."

"Might I see this communication? Hmmm! The gentlefur in question is "de Ciervos," and it would behoove you to remember that. A good night's sleep will no doubt be in order. Come, let us go downstairs, and seek out a bed for you and a suit for Citizen Morgan."

No sooner than the two heroes have departed, do two events occur within a few feet of the spot they had occupied.

For one, a pensive Henry von der Wald returns from the writing room; he hands a neatly printed envelope to the front desk, asking that it be delivered to Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Trotter. He also enquires about reservations for breakfast this next morning at L'Etoile d'Argent.

Luckily for him, there is one table left. The next-to-last table has already been reserved, just this moment.

For Her Serene Highness, who evidently has learned the value of reservations.