I could only repeat, “What’s the idea of trying to run off with the van? I’m responsible for it.” “He’s responsible, see,” mocked another voice from the body of the van. “Aint polite not to wait on him.” I was wedged between the driver and my assailant; my shoulder ached and I was beginning to be really frightened now my first anger had passed. These were “action” members of the Grand Army; men who regularly committed battery, mayhem, arson, robbery and murder. I had been both foolhardy and lucky; realizing this it seemed diplomatic not to try for possession of the reins. I could hear the breathing and mumbling of others in back, but it didnt need this to tell me the van was over-loaded. We turned north on Sixth Avenue; the street lights showed Sprovis driving. “Gidap, gidap,” he urged, “get going!” “That’s a horse,” I protested; “not a locomotive.” “What do you know?” came from behind; “And we thought we was on the Erie.” “He’s tired,” I persisted, “and he’s pulling too much weight.” “Shut up,” ordered Sprovis quietly. “Shut up.” The quietness was not deceptive; it was ominous. I shut up. Speed was stupid on several counts. For one thing it called attention to the van at a time when most commercial vehicles had been stabled for the night and the traffic was almost entirely carriages, buggies, hacks and minibiles. I visualized the suspicious crowd which would gather immediately if our horse dropped from exhaustion. There was no hope that consciousness of an innocuous cargo made Sprovis bold; whatever we carried was bound to be as incriminating as the counterfeit bills. Disconnected scraps of conversation drifted from Sprovis’ companions. “I says, ‘Look here, youre making a nice profit from selling abroad. Either you....’” “And of course he put it all on a twenty-dollar ticket even though....” “‘ ... my taxes,’ he says. ‘You worry about your taxes,’ I says; ‘I’m worried about your contributions.’” A monotonous chuffing close behind us forced itself into my consciousness; when we turned eastward in the Forties I exclaimed, “There’s a minibile following us!” Even as I spoke the trackless engine pulled alongside and then darted ahead to pocket us by nosing diagonally toward the curb. The horse must have been too weak to shy; he simply stopped short and I heard the curses of the felled passengers behind me. “Not the cops anyway!” “Cons for a nickel!” “Only half a block from—” “Quick, break out the guns—” “Not those guns; one bang and we’re through. Air pistols, if anybody’s got one. Hands or knives. Get them all!” They piled out swiftly past me; I remained alone on the seat, an audience of one, properly ensconced. A few blocks away was the small park where Tirzah used to meet me. It was not believable that this was happening in one of New York’s quietest residential districts in the year 1942.