In the icy darkness just before one dawn last week an automobile sped into that part of New York City which lies north of the Harlem River, ground to a halt at the great Bronx Terminal Market. Foodhandlers, working under arc lights, stopped to stare and pound their frozen hands together, as out of the car emerged a small, swart Napoleonic figure wrapped in a greatcoat. The man mounted, with assistance, the tailboard of a truck, took a paper from his pocket. Two shivering policemen braced their shoulders, put bugles to their chapped lips, sounded assembly. Half way through the...
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