I had learned enough of the printing trade to recognize the brightly colored oblongs as lithographs, and I wondered as I stooped over to gather them up why such a job should have been given Tyss rather than a shop specializing in this work. Even under the gaslight the colors were hard and vigorous. Then I really looked at the bundle I was holding. ESPAÑA was enscrolled across the top; below it was the picture of a man with long nose and jutting underlip, flanked by two ornate figure fives, and beneath them the legend, CINCO PESETAS. Spanish Empire banknotes. Bundles and bundles of them. I needed neither expert knowledge nor minute scrutiny to tell me there was a fortune here in counterfeit money. The purpose in forging Spanish currency I could not see; that it was no private undertaking of Tyss’s but an activity of the Grand Army I was certain. Puzzled and worried, I rewrapped the bundles of notes into as neat an imitation of the original package as I could contrive. The rest of the day I spent casting uneasy glances at the mound of boxes and watching with apprehension the movement of anyone toward them. Death was the penalty for counterfeiting United States coins; I had no idea of the punishment for doing the same with foreign paper but I was sure even so minor an accessory as myself would be in a sad way if some officious customer should stumble against one of the packages. Tyss in no way acted like a guilty man, or even one with an important secret. He seemed unaware of any peril; doubtless he was daily in similar situations, only chance and my own lack of observation had prevented my discovering this earlier. Nor did he show anxiety when Pondible failed to arrive. Darkness came and the gaslamps went on in the streets. The heavy press of traffic outside dwindled, but the incriminating boxes remained undisturbed near the door. At last there was the sound of uncertain wheels slowing up outside and Pondible’s voice admonishing, “Wh-whoa!” I rushed out just as he was dismounting with slow dignity. “Who goes?” he asked; “Vance and give a countersign.” “It’s Hodge,” I said. “Let me help you.” “Hodge! Old friend; not seen long time!” (He had been in the store only the day before.) “Terrible sfortune, Hodge. Dri-driving wagon. Fell off. Fell off wagon I mean. See?” “Sure, I see. Let me hitch the horse for you. Mr Tyss is waiting.” “Avoidable,” he muttered, “nuvoidable, voidable. Fell off.” Tyss took him by the arm. “You come with me and rest awhile. Hodgins, you better start loading up; youll have to do the delivering now.” Rebellious refusal formed in my mind. Why should I be still further involved? He had no right to demand it of me; in self-protection I was bound to refuse. “Mr Tyss....” “Yes?” Two weeks would see me free of him, but nothing could wipe out the debt I owed him. “Nothing. Nothing,” I murmured and picked up one of the boxes. _8._ _IN VIOLENT TIMES_