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 Nexus Point, seventeen long years of waiting for the next one.
They crossed the Sheep Meadow, crossed the walk, crossed an old covered bridge; and they were at the head of a flight of shallow steps.
"The Vale of Cashmere!" cried Mooney, as though he were announcing a miracle.
Harse said nothing.
Mooney licked his lips, glancing at the kit Harse carried under an arm, glancing around. No one was in sight.