The trouble was that Harse did not care for conversation. He spent endless hours with his film viewer, and when he said anything at all to Mooney, it was to complain. All he wanted was to exist for four days--nothing else. Mooney laid conversational traps, tried to draw him out, and there was no luck. Harse would turn his blank, pale stare on him, and refuse to be drawn. At night, however hard Mooney tried, Harse was always awake past him; and in his sleep, always and always, the little metal guardians strapped Mooney tight. Survival kit? But how did the little metal things know that Mooney was a threat? It was maddening and time was passing. There were four days, then only three, then only two. Mooney made arrangements of his own. He found two girls--lovely girls, the best that money could buy, and he brought them to the suite with a wink and a snigger. "A little relaxation, eh, Harse? The red-haired one is named Ginger and she's partial to men with light-colored eyes." Ginger smiled a rehearsed and lovely smile. "I certainly _am_, Mr. Harse. Say, want to dance?" But it came to nothing, though the house detective knocked deferentially on the door to ask if they could be a little more quiet, please. It wasn't the sound of celebration that the neighbors were objecting to. It was the shrill, violent noise of Harse's laughter. First he had seemed not to understand, and then he looked as astonished as Mooney had ever seen him. And then the laughter. Girls didn't work. Mooney got rid of the girls. All right, Mooney was a man of infinite resource and sagacity--hadn't he proved that many a time? He excused himself to Harse, made sure his fat new pigskin wallet was in his pocket, and took a cab to a place on Brooklyn's waterfront where cabs seldom go. The bartender had arms like beer kegs and a blue chin. "Beer," said Mooney, and made sure he paid for it with a twenty-dollar bill--thumbing through a thick wad of fifties and hundreds to find the smallest. He retired to a booth and nursed his beer. After about ten minutes, a man stood beside him, blue-chinned and muscular enough to be the bartender's brother--which, Mooney found, he was. "Well," said Mooney, "it took you long enough. Sit down. You don't have to roll me; you can earn this." Girls didn't work? Okay, if not girls, then try boys ... well, not boys exactly. Hoodlums. Try hoodlums and see what Harse might do against the toughest inhabitants of the area around the Gowanus Canal. * * * * * 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!"