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that?” Bob asked.
    I placed his nasal bray. New England somewhere.
    â€œA Johnny Reb,” said Jack. “The war of Southern secession.”
    â€œFuck that,” said Bob. “I’m Irish.”
    â€œOh really? From the Free State are you now?” mocked Jack.
    â€œWhat in the hell are you talking about?” asked Bob.
    â€œYou don’t sound Irish,” I said.
    â€œBoston Irish,” Bob countered.
    â€œBob’s kinsman ran for governor of Massachusetts,” said Jack. “Why’d he lose again?”
    â€œNever mind.”
    â€œMick here’s a Peep o’ Day Boy,” said Jack.
    Bob finished counting and glared. Jack winked at me.
    â€œWhat’ve you got?” he asked Bob.
    â€œTwenty-eight hundred and thirty-five in bills. Maybe seventy more in change. Some Double Eagles. What’re these?”
    Bob held out a handful of gold discs.
    â€œNew Zealand dollars,” Jack said. “Coin o’ the realm. So, that’s almost a thousand apiece. Not too shabby for an hour’s work.”
    Bob spluttered: “Jesus, Jack, you said...”
    â€œI said it was an easy score,” Jack cut in. “You hear any sirens? Filth knocking at your door? You Yankee bastards are never happy.”
    â€œI’m no Yankee,” went Bob.
    â€œRight, you’re some sort of shamrock-blooded Paddy Free Stater and a second cousin to Michael Collins. Up here in the Dominion you’re a Yankee, son, both you and that gentleman we tied up, so pipe down and cut the pot.”
    Jack turned to me now, full flower. Amongst other questions, I wondered how much he’d taken on board. Drunk and garrulous it was best to let him wax eloquent.
    â€œDid you know that John Wilkes Booth was here in this very town at the St. Lawrence Hall before he shot Lincoln? The bugger bragged all over town he was going to do it. Hell, Montreal was rotten with Confederates and spies and after the war Jefferson Goddamned Davis lived here and wrote his memoirs. There’s something wrong with this city; it breeds treason. Benedict Arnold, Booth, Benjamin Franklin.”
    â€œFranklin was no traitor,” interrupted Bob.
    â€œFranklin was a bought and paid for agent of George III,” said Jack.
    Sullenly, Bob finished dividing the paper money. We each took our respective shares and I counted mine out: nine hundred and forty-five dollars in mixed bills. Not bad was right. It was more money than I’d ever held in my hands at one time.
    â€œGive me the coins,” Jack said.
    â€œWhat’re you going to do with them?” asked my avarice.
    â€œBury them under a sour apple tree. Can’t trust that bag with either of you Micks. You’d probably off and tithe it.”
    â€œI take no orders from Rome,” I said.
    Jack just laughed, as Bob and I eyed one another across a widening divide.
    Bob resembled a nasty schoolboy, with traces of breeding shining through an assumed coarseness. It was something I’d seen before, rich boys talking common. Arrogant and vindictive, and no new friend of mine. Still, there was more to the gladrag, that much was clear. Bob put an elastic around his money. I figured I’d unstitch my coat tomorrow and hide mine in the lining.
    â€œYou paint?” I asked Bob.
    â€œSome.”
    â€œBob’s a Fenian and a Fauvist,” Jack teased.
    Bob ignored Jack’s baiting. Jack hadn’t touched his money yet, and I still had questions to put to him. What’d happened in the woods? How’d he gotten away and what had prompted this risky heist? I was close to asking when he rose and gathered his cash and the valise.
    â€œI’d stay away from the Bank of England were I you,” said Jack. “Try not to spend it ostentatiously. That son of a bitch Adams’ll claim double what we stole to the cops and tell the ’papers the same tale of woe for his insurance. The world was ever thus. Now, I