THE TORRENTS OF SPRING 81
the beautiful thing happened to me." Yogi Johnson looked at his empty plate of beans. "Since then," he said, "I have never wanted a woman. How I have suffered I cannot tell. But I've suffered, boys, I've suffered. I blamed it on the war. I blamed it on France. I blamed it on the decay of morality in general. I blamed it on the younger generation. I blamed it here. I blamed it there. Now I am cured. Here's five dollars for you, boys." His eyes were shining. "Get some more to eat. Take a trip somewhere. This is the happiest day of my life."
He stood up from his stool before the counter, shook the one Indian impulsively by the hand, rested his hand for a minute on the other Indian's shoulder, opened the door of the beanery, and strode out into the night.
The two Indians looked at one another. "White chief heap nice fella," observed the big Indian.
"Think him was in the war?" asked the little Indian.
"Me wonder," the big Indian said.
"White chief said he buy me new artificial arm," the little Indian grumbled.
"Maybe you get more than that," the big Indian said.
"Me wonder," the little Indian said. They went on eating.
At the other end of the counter of the beanery a marriage was coming to an end.
Scripps O'Neil and his wife sat side by side. Mrs. Scripps knew now. She couldn't hold him. She had tried and failed. She had lost. She knew it was a losing game. There was no holding him now. Mandy was talking again. Talking. Talking. Always talking. That interminable stream of literary gossip that was bringer her, Diana's, marriage to an end. She couldn't hold him. He
