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Listed in Folders
Very Fawnedly Yours
© 2013 by Walter Reimer
(All characters courtesy of
EOCostello, 
MercMarten and 
Major Matt Mason. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)
The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).
Art by
turnbolt
__________________________________________________
Part 10.
Reggie:
Miss Haversham was a top-notch secretary. If being a secretary were a sport, I’d put her up there at the top alongside Bradman.
Of course, being British, she might not appreciate the comparison.
We had gone through the contents of the folder and were done about twenty minutes before the meeting was to start. “Is there anything else you need to know before you go upstairs, Mister Buckhorn?”
“Er, yes, yes there is, actually. Who’s on the board?”
The mouse grinned, and hastened to assure me that I might actually recognize a few of them. Half the Board’s twelve members (not counting Yours Truly and the Sire) were members of the Family, it appeared.
Notable among them was Uncle Albert Buckhorn, Old Fred’s youngest brother. The old buck was ninety-two, deaf as a post (although she had doubts about that), and married to a nineteen year-old doe for a wife.
“Gold-digger?” I ventured.
Miss Haversham’s grin widened and she leaned in conspiratorially. “I don’t think she has the brains, Mister Buckhorn. She was a chorine, so I hear.”
“From where?”
“Blackpool.”
“Ah.”
The rest of the six family members were cousins of varying degrees. The American branch of the Family was well-represented. “Are there any members I should watch out for?” I asked.
She got a pensive look. “Come, come,” I urged. “You can tell tales out of school if you wish. I need to know this, y’know.”
“All right, sir. One of your cousins, William. Very bad piece of work, and hasn’t disguised the fact that he thought you should have stayed on the other side of the world. And one of the others, Nigel Pilkington-Barnwell.”
“Good Lord. So what’s Nigel’s story?”
“He thinks, so I’ve heard, that the Family shouldn’t have most of the votes on the Board and most of the stock,” Miss Haversham said. She regarded the clock with a weather eye. “You need to get upstairs, sir.”
“So I do. Thank you, Miss Haversham.” She left the office and took up her post at her desk as I headed for the elevator she pointed to.
The main boardroom was an expansive affair, with the south wall made up of glass and facing the rooftop garden. Everything out there was carefully and lovingly tended, a sight to make most herbivores drool. Portraits of Fred and my grandfather George were at either end of the room.
I had a seat at the far end from the Sire’s chair, which suited me quite well. Perhaps not coincidentally, the portrait I was sitting under was Grandfather's, who the Sire had packed off to a home many years ago. I set my folder down and took a seat.
Very comfortable leather chair. I tried not to look at the bar off in one corner. Willow would expect me to avoid any Dutch courage – at least until after I got home.
The rest of the Board entered in two groups, and from the family resemblance the first group were all related to me. Uncle Albert entered supported by two canes and my cousin William, who glared at me a bit but didn’t say anything. The rest of the Colonial Cousins smiled and waved, then took their seats as the second group hove into view.
When the second group came in, one of them stepped aside and walked up to me. The fellow was a tall, lean ram with curly headfleece and a wide, friendly grin that showed big square teeth. He put out a paw and said, “Nigel Pilkington-Barnwell, Mr. Buckhorn. So pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Well! Here was a surprise, and no mistake. From Miss Haversham’s description of him, Nigel was a bit more wolf than sheep. Still, I put my best face on it and shook paws with him. “Very pleased to meet you, as well,” I said. I raised my voice a bit as the others started to sit down. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”
Nigel smiled again. “Rather,” he said. “Tell me, do you play golf? Hunt? Fish?”
“Tennis.”
He suddenly looked as if he’d bitten into a sour persimmon. But he rallied and, with another ingratiating smile, made his way to his seat.
Just in time, too, as everyone stood up just as the clock started to strike eleven and the Sire stormed in. I say stormed in, as the members of the Board shook like trees in one of those typhoon thingies. He sat down, and an aide in livery set down a tray of Zepps cookies, a silver bowl of walnuts complete with cracker, and a tea service. For a long while, there was no sound save for the Sire’s slurping and chewing, and the occasional crack of a walnut shell.
Finally he belched and growled, “This – “ he waved at me “ – is my son, Reginald.” His muzzle twisted as if the last walnut had been less than fresh. “He’s the new Vice-Chairman and Junior Managing Director.” He fixed a beady eye on me.
I stood up slowly. “Reginald Buckhorn,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you all, and I’m looking forward to working with – “
“Yes, yes,” the Sire said, looking peeved. “There’ll be time for all that later. Item one, old business. Jenkins!”
One of the younger directors, a bull in his early thirties, jumped and consulted his notes. “Canadian wheat futures are going up, m’Lord. They project a hard winter this year.”
“Put thirty percent into American winter wheat. Weather forecasters are always wrong, anyway.” He ate another cookie, the number of Zepps decreasing fast. “Blankenship!”
“Company stock is up another ten point four percent, m’Lord.”
“Maybe it’s time to do a public offering,” Nigel muttered, but smiled winningly as the Sire glared at him for speaking out of turn.
“He’s got a point, Uncle Josslyn,” one of my cousins offered.
“Bah. Stanley, do you want to go back to being a stevedore?”
The buck was about twice my size, although an inch or so shorter. He grumbled a negative and sat back in his chair. “Great blistering barnacles,” he mumbled.
“But since you’ve drawn attention to yourself – what is going on in San Mingus?”
I glanced through my notes. San Mingus was a small South American port. Buckhorn’s gets a good amount of nutmeg, cinnamon and papaya through them. There had been a slowdown in loading the last FRB freighter to dock there, the City of Wilkes-Barre.
“Unionizing,” Stanley responded.
“Hrrm. Tell the San Mingans for me that if they don’t solve the problem, I will. Send our purchasing agent there to Porto Vicuna. Give them some incentive.” He caught my eye as I scribbled a note. “Question, Reginald?”
I looked up. “No, Sir. Just taking notes.”
He looked disappointed, and oddly enough so did everyone else. I expect they were all waiting for me to suddenly do or say something epically stupid.
Earlier this year, they might have laid bets on it with a fair chance of a good return.
Gad, the tension was getting worse in here, if that was at all possible. I resisted the urge to tug open my collar. It didn’t look like the windows opened, so fresh air was out of the question.
Interestingly, the windows also looked as if no one had managed to defenestrate themselves. I figured the room was saved for special occasions. There are other boardrooms, of course, and I recall one where I practiced rolling marbles after that incident with the horse. Some of the marbles unfortunately ran into the ventilation system, which was right over the Sire’s office.
That was when the Sire first got the idea of sending me abroad, I think.
I idly wondered if anyone had gotten the marbles out.
Nigel was talking when I started paying attention again. “ . . . And our dairy division has shown a ten-percent increase in production for the last quarter. Of course, there are some of us who prefer something a bit stronger than mere milk,” and he grinned at me.
A few others grinned as well.
One or two actually chuckled, while the Sire looked grim.
And something inside me – snapped.
***
Josslyn:
That confounded nincompoop Nigel. Still, he had a point.
When the last of them stopped that inane chuckling, there was a short silence.
Followed by a snort like a train whistle as my damned fawn stood up.
“Mr. Pilkington-Barnwell is quite right, gentlemen,” he said. My ears perked up.
I’ve heard my son speak several times, usually in vapid or booze-soaked tones.
But never like this. ‘Barely suppressed fury’ comes close to an accurate description.
“There was a time when I would have favored the fruits of Bacchus,” he was saying, “but with my marriage those days are now far behind me. I am told that I am a better buck for it. Once upon a time I would have agreed with you, and proposed drinks.
“But not any longer. And not here.”
He leaned over, giving the ram a baleful glare. Pilkington’s smile was starting to wilt like roses in a blast furnace.
“But I will tell you all that we do serious business here … and this is NOT the place, or the TIME, for silly jokes, MISTER Pilkington-Barnwell. I assure you, I am very, VERY, SOBER right now, as befits the buck who will – one VERY far-off day – be your EMPLOYER.”
The smile had faded entirely, and he was looking left and right for support.
And finding none.
Reggie leaned over further, and gave him a groat’s worth of some language, probably what those natives in the Spontoons gabble.
“Hoku vakapuna tētē 'i 'olunga fono 'i he toke!”
He sat back down to thunderous silence.
That senile old fool Albert started to applaud. William just looked surprised, and Stanley was looking at him quizzically.
I, however, jotted down a note.
I’m forced to admit that the little clot might, just might, be a worthy successor after all.
***
Willow:
The phone call wasn’t exactly satisfactory, but I was told that I’d be welcome if I came round and had some tea.
So I took a taxi into the City.
Nosey’s driving was something to behold, usually between one’s fingers as their paws would be over their eyes the whole trip. Besides, my stomachs were feeling a bit whoopsy, and there’s no sense in tempting fate.
The Crossley was brand new, and the upholstery would have suffered.
London traffic was worse than, say, New York, but not as suicidal as Paris’. After a while the big black cab came to a stop, and I paid my fare.
I found myself deposited at the corner of Berkeley and Hay, facing a nondescript office. The brass plate bore an all-seeing eye.
The London office of Minkerton’s Detective Agency.
I rechecked that my badge and identification card were still in my purse, squared my shoulders, and went in.
Compared to the swanky lobby of Minkerton’s HQ in New York, this had a slightly sleepy air, like one of those clubs you read about. You know, the ones that don’t allow women to set foot in them.
I could tell you a thing or two about those places, having been in one or two.
It was also like those clubs where it often takes days to realize the member in the chair over by the window is, in fact, dead.
Anyway, I walked up to the man at the desk. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Ma’am,” the man, a slightly stout wirehaired terrier, replied in a polite but slightly frosty, formal tone. “What can I do for you?”
I held up my badge. “Willow Fawnsworthy. I have an appointment.”
A gentle, skeptical lift of an eyebrow. “Do you?”
I smiled. “Et suppositio nil ponit in esse,” and added a certain string of numbers and letters.
Saying it doesn’t make it so. A girl’s got to keep some secrets, of course.
Both eyebrows went up and I saw the man’s right arm flex a bit. “Welcome to London, Ma’am,” he said with a bit more warmth in his voice. I knew he’d set aside the gun he had in his paw. “Please wait here and I’ll ring up Mister Benson.”
“Thank you.”
Milo Benson was the head of the agency in London. He was a lean hound with a gently raffish air about him. Must have been a real hit with the ladies when he was younger, and probably still thought that way.
He guided me into his office and showed me to a seat. “I am pleased to meet you, Agent Fawnsworthy,” he said as he sat down. “You were last here in thirty-five, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. As bodyguard to Leslie duCleds.”
He nodded. “We had at least two others watching, in case you or he managed to run afoul of those ruffians in Cheapside.”
I smiled. Should I tell him that I’d made at least one of our tails that night?
Shouldn’t need to. It was all in my report.
“I’m grateful, of course, that you agreed to see me.”
He glanced at a piece of paper on his otherwise bare desk. “It says here that you’re on the inactive list . . . because of your marriage, and your, ah – “
“Yes, sir. I’m in the family way.” I accompanied this with a serene smile.
“Er, yes, rather. Suppose,” he said, placing his elbows on his desk and placing his chin in his paws, “you tell me what the situation is, Agent Fawnsworthy.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
© 2013 by Walter Reimer
(All characters courtesy of
EOCostello, 
MercMarten and 
Major Matt Mason. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).
Art by
turnbolt__________________________________________________
Part 10.
Reggie:
Miss Haversham was a top-notch secretary. If being a secretary were a sport, I’d put her up there at the top alongside Bradman.
Of course, being British, she might not appreciate the comparison.
We had gone through the contents of the folder and were done about twenty minutes before the meeting was to start. “Is there anything else you need to know before you go upstairs, Mister Buckhorn?”
“Er, yes, yes there is, actually. Who’s on the board?”
The mouse grinned, and hastened to assure me that I might actually recognize a few of them. Half the Board’s twelve members (not counting Yours Truly and the Sire) were members of the Family, it appeared.
Notable among them was Uncle Albert Buckhorn, Old Fred’s youngest brother. The old buck was ninety-two, deaf as a post (although she had doubts about that), and married to a nineteen year-old doe for a wife.
“Gold-digger?” I ventured.
Miss Haversham’s grin widened and she leaned in conspiratorially. “I don’t think she has the brains, Mister Buckhorn. She was a chorine, so I hear.”
“From where?”
“Blackpool.”
“Ah.”
The rest of the six family members were cousins of varying degrees. The American branch of the Family was well-represented. “Are there any members I should watch out for?” I asked.
She got a pensive look. “Come, come,” I urged. “You can tell tales out of school if you wish. I need to know this, y’know.”
“All right, sir. One of your cousins, William. Very bad piece of work, and hasn’t disguised the fact that he thought you should have stayed on the other side of the world. And one of the others, Nigel Pilkington-Barnwell.”
“Good Lord. So what’s Nigel’s story?”
“He thinks, so I’ve heard, that the Family shouldn’t have most of the votes on the Board and most of the stock,” Miss Haversham said. She regarded the clock with a weather eye. “You need to get upstairs, sir.”
“So I do. Thank you, Miss Haversham.” She left the office and took up her post at her desk as I headed for the elevator she pointed to.
The main boardroom was an expansive affair, with the south wall made up of glass and facing the rooftop garden. Everything out there was carefully and lovingly tended, a sight to make most herbivores drool. Portraits of Fred and my grandfather George were at either end of the room.
I had a seat at the far end from the Sire’s chair, which suited me quite well. Perhaps not coincidentally, the portrait I was sitting under was Grandfather's, who the Sire had packed off to a home many years ago. I set my folder down and took a seat.
Very comfortable leather chair. I tried not to look at the bar off in one corner. Willow would expect me to avoid any Dutch courage – at least until after I got home.
The rest of the Board entered in two groups, and from the family resemblance the first group were all related to me. Uncle Albert entered supported by two canes and my cousin William, who glared at me a bit but didn’t say anything. The rest of the Colonial Cousins smiled and waved, then took their seats as the second group hove into view.
When the second group came in, one of them stepped aside and walked up to me. The fellow was a tall, lean ram with curly headfleece and a wide, friendly grin that showed big square teeth. He put out a paw and said, “Nigel Pilkington-Barnwell, Mr. Buckhorn. So pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Well! Here was a surprise, and no mistake. From Miss Haversham’s description of him, Nigel was a bit more wolf than sheep. Still, I put my best face on it and shook paws with him. “Very pleased to meet you, as well,” I said. I raised my voice a bit as the others started to sit down. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”
Nigel smiled again. “Rather,” he said. “Tell me, do you play golf? Hunt? Fish?”
“Tennis.”
He suddenly looked as if he’d bitten into a sour persimmon. But he rallied and, with another ingratiating smile, made his way to his seat.
Just in time, too, as everyone stood up just as the clock started to strike eleven and the Sire stormed in. I say stormed in, as the members of the Board shook like trees in one of those typhoon thingies. He sat down, and an aide in livery set down a tray of Zepps cookies, a silver bowl of walnuts complete with cracker, and a tea service. For a long while, there was no sound save for the Sire’s slurping and chewing, and the occasional crack of a walnut shell.
Finally he belched and growled, “This – “ he waved at me “ – is my son, Reginald.” His muzzle twisted as if the last walnut had been less than fresh. “He’s the new Vice-Chairman and Junior Managing Director.” He fixed a beady eye on me.
I stood up slowly. “Reginald Buckhorn,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you all, and I’m looking forward to working with – “
“Yes, yes,” the Sire said, looking peeved. “There’ll be time for all that later. Item one, old business. Jenkins!”
One of the younger directors, a bull in his early thirties, jumped and consulted his notes. “Canadian wheat futures are going up, m’Lord. They project a hard winter this year.”
“Put thirty percent into American winter wheat. Weather forecasters are always wrong, anyway.” He ate another cookie, the number of Zepps decreasing fast. “Blankenship!”
“Company stock is up another ten point four percent, m’Lord.”
“Maybe it’s time to do a public offering,” Nigel muttered, but smiled winningly as the Sire glared at him for speaking out of turn.
“He’s got a point, Uncle Josslyn,” one of my cousins offered.
“Bah. Stanley, do you want to go back to being a stevedore?”
The buck was about twice my size, although an inch or so shorter. He grumbled a negative and sat back in his chair. “Great blistering barnacles,” he mumbled.
“But since you’ve drawn attention to yourself – what is going on in San Mingus?”
I glanced through my notes. San Mingus was a small South American port. Buckhorn’s gets a good amount of nutmeg, cinnamon and papaya through them. There had been a slowdown in loading the last FRB freighter to dock there, the City of Wilkes-Barre.
“Unionizing,” Stanley responded.
“Hrrm. Tell the San Mingans for me that if they don’t solve the problem, I will. Send our purchasing agent there to Porto Vicuna. Give them some incentive.” He caught my eye as I scribbled a note. “Question, Reginald?”
I looked up. “No, Sir. Just taking notes.”
He looked disappointed, and oddly enough so did everyone else. I expect they were all waiting for me to suddenly do or say something epically stupid.
Earlier this year, they might have laid bets on it with a fair chance of a good return.
Gad, the tension was getting worse in here, if that was at all possible. I resisted the urge to tug open my collar. It didn’t look like the windows opened, so fresh air was out of the question.
Interestingly, the windows also looked as if no one had managed to defenestrate themselves. I figured the room was saved for special occasions. There are other boardrooms, of course, and I recall one where I practiced rolling marbles after that incident with the horse. Some of the marbles unfortunately ran into the ventilation system, which was right over the Sire’s office.
That was when the Sire first got the idea of sending me abroad, I think.
I idly wondered if anyone had gotten the marbles out.
Nigel was talking when I started paying attention again. “ . . . And our dairy division has shown a ten-percent increase in production for the last quarter. Of course, there are some of us who prefer something a bit stronger than mere milk,” and he grinned at me.
A few others grinned as well.
One or two actually chuckled, while the Sire looked grim.
And something inside me – snapped.
***
Josslyn:
That confounded nincompoop Nigel. Still, he had a point.
When the last of them stopped that inane chuckling, there was a short silence.
Followed by a snort like a train whistle as my damned fawn stood up.
“Mr. Pilkington-Barnwell is quite right, gentlemen,” he said. My ears perked up.
I’ve heard my son speak several times, usually in vapid or booze-soaked tones.
But never like this. ‘Barely suppressed fury’ comes close to an accurate description.
“There was a time when I would have favored the fruits of Bacchus,” he was saying, “but with my marriage those days are now far behind me. I am told that I am a better buck for it. Once upon a time I would have agreed with you, and proposed drinks.
“But not any longer. And not here.”
He leaned over, giving the ram a baleful glare. Pilkington’s smile was starting to wilt like roses in a blast furnace.
“But I will tell you all that we do serious business here … and this is NOT the place, or the TIME, for silly jokes, MISTER Pilkington-Barnwell. I assure you, I am very, VERY, SOBER right now, as befits the buck who will – one VERY far-off day – be your EMPLOYER.”
The smile had faded entirely, and he was looking left and right for support.
And finding none.
Reggie leaned over further, and gave him a groat’s worth of some language, probably what those natives in the Spontoons gabble.
“Hoku vakapuna tētē 'i 'olunga fono 'i he toke!”
He sat back down to thunderous silence.
That senile old fool Albert started to applaud. William just looked surprised, and Stanley was looking at him quizzically.
I, however, jotted down a note.
I’m forced to admit that the little clot might, just might, be a worthy successor after all.
***
Willow:
The phone call wasn’t exactly satisfactory, but I was told that I’d be welcome if I came round and had some tea.
So I took a taxi into the City.
Nosey’s driving was something to behold, usually between one’s fingers as their paws would be over their eyes the whole trip. Besides, my stomachs were feeling a bit whoopsy, and there’s no sense in tempting fate.
The Crossley was brand new, and the upholstery would have suffered.
London traffic was worse than, say, New York, but not as suicidal as Paris’. After a while the big black cab came to a stop, and I paid my fare.
I found myself deposited at the corner of Berkeley and Hay, facing a nondescript office. The brass plate bore an all-seeing eye.
The London office of Minkerton’s Detective Agency.
I rechecked that my badge and identification card were still in my purse, squared my shoulders, and went in.
Compared to the swanky lobby of Minkerton’s HQ in New York, this had a slightly sleepy air, like one of those clubs you read about. You know, the ones that don’t allow women to set foot in them.
I could tell you a thing or two about those places, having been in one or two.
It was also like those clubs where it often takes days to realize the member in the chair over by the window is, in fact, dead.
Anyway, I walked up to the man at the desk. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Ma’am,” the man, a slightly stout wirehaired terrier, replied in a polite but slightly frosty, formal tone. “What can I do for you?”
I held up my badge. “Willow Fawnsworthy. I have an appointment.”
A gentle, skeptical lift of an eyebrow. “Do you?”
I smiled. “Et suppositio nil ponit in esse,” and added a certain string of numbers and letters.
Saying it doesn’t make it so. A girl’s got to keep some secrets, of course.
Both eyebrows went up and I saw the man’s right arm flex a bit. “Welcome to London, Ma’am,” he said with a bit more warmth in his voice. I knew he’d set aside the gun he had in his paw. “Please wait here and I’ll ring up Mister Benson.”
“Thank you.”
Milo Benson was the head of the agency in London. He was a lean hound with a gently raffish air about him. Must have been a real hit with the ladies when he was younger, and probably still thought that way.
He guided me into his office and showed me to a seat. “I am pleased to meet you, Agent Fawnsworthy,” he said as he sat down. “You were last here in thirty-five, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. As bodyguard to Leslie duCleds.”
He nodded. “We had at least two others watching, in case you or he managed to run afoul of those ruffians in Cheapside.”
I smiled. Should I tell him that I’d made at least one of our tails that night?
Shouldn’t need to. It was all in my report.
“I’m grateful, of course, that you agreed to see me.”
He glanced at a piece of paper on his otherwise bare desk. “It says here that you’re on the inactive list . . . because of your marriage, and your, ah – “
“Yes, sir. I’m in the family way.” I accompanied this with a serene smile.
“Er, yes, rather. Suppose,” he said, placing his elbows on his desk and placing his chin in his paws, “you tell me what the situation is, Agent Fawnsworthy.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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