HARSE, SLOSHING HEEDLESSLY through melted snow, spattering Mooney, grumbled: “I do not see why we. Must? Wander endlessly across the face of this wretched slum.”
Mooney said soothingly: “We have to make sure, Harse. We have to be sure it’s the right place.”
“Huff,” said Harse, but he went along. They were in Prospect Park and it was nearly dark.
“Hey, look,” said Mooney desperately, “look at those kids on sleds!”
Harse glanced angrily at the kids on sleds and even more angrily at Mooney. Still, he wasn’t refusing to come and that was something. It had been possible that Harse would sit tight in the hotel room and it had taken all of the persuasive powers Mooney prided himself on to get him out. But Mooney was able to paint a horrible picture of getting to the wrong place, missing the N
