64 ERNEST HEMINGWAY
leaning forward and watching the wampums pass from hand to hand. His dark face shone. Sharply, without explanation, he broke into high-pitched uncontrolled laughter. The dark laughter of the Negro.
Red Dog looked at him sharply. "I say, Bruce," he spoke sharply; "you mirth is a little ill-timed."
Bruce stopped laughing and wiped his face on a towel. He rolled his eyes apologetically.
"Ah can't help it, Massa Red Dog. When I seen Mistah Skunk-Backhouse passin' dem wampums around I jess couldn't stand it no longa. Whad he wan sell a big town like New Yawk foh dem wampums for? Wampums! Take away yoah wampums!"
"Bruce is an eccentric," Red Dog explained, "but he's a corking bartender and a good-hearted chap."
"Youah right theah, Massa Red Dog," the bartender leaned forward. "I'se got a heart of a puah gold."
"He is an eccentric, though," Red Dog apologized. "The house committee are always after me to get another bartender, but I like the chap, oddly enough."
"I'm all right, boss," Bruce said. "It's just that when I see something funny I just have to laff. You know I don' mean no harm, boss."
"Right enough, Bruce," Red Dog agreed. "You are an honest chap."
Yogi Johnson looked about the room. The other Indians had gone away from the bar, and Skunk-Backwards was showing the wampum to a little group of Indians in dinner dress who had just come in. At the pool-table the two woods Indians were still playing. They had removed their coats, and the light above the pool-table glinted on the metal joints in the little woods Indian's artificial
