With the point of a fork Greg indicated Silver Pond on the map. "There's our mark," said he. "We cross the Williamsburgh bridge and leave Long Island City by Van Buren Avenue. The rest is easy. The Crematory's not marked on the map but——"
"What's a crematory?" interrupted Hickey. "Anythin' like a creamery?"
"Not much like it," said Greg. "We'll go to the railway station and inquire from there. I suppose I ought to have a gun——"
"Good God! what for?"
"How can you pull off a hold-up without a gun?"
"Then you mean it, a hold-up?"
"Surest thing you know."
"Lordy! Lordy!" murmured Hickey. "What a fellow you are! You'll have to attend to the gun-play yourself. I'm too nervous!"
"I will. I don't mean to use it really, just flash it. We've got a little all-steel monkey-wrench that will give a perfect imitation of an automatic in the dark. That will do. We must fill up the flivver with gas, put in a quart of oil, and let down the top."
"Why the top?" asked Hickey. "It's cold."