62 ERNEST HEMINGWAY
Yogi looked around him. The two Indians who had brought him were gone. Where were they? Then he saw them. They were over at the pool-table. The tall refined Indian to whom Yogi was talking followed his glance. He nodded his head in understanding.
"They're woods Indians," he explained apologetically. "We're most of us town Indians here."
"Yes, of course," Yogi agreed.
"The little chap has a very good war record," the tall refined Indian remarked. "The other chap was a major too, I believe."
Yogi was guided over to the bar by the tall refined Indian. Behind the bar was the bartender. He was a Negro.
"How would some Dog's Head ale go?" asked the Indian.
"Fine," Yogi said.
"Two Dog's Heads, Bruce," the Indian remarked to the bartender. The bartender broke into a chuckle.
"What are you laughing at, Bruce?" the Indian asked.
The Negro broke into a shrill haunting laugh.
"I knowed it, Massa Red Dog," he said. "I knowed you'd ordah dat Dog's Head all the time."
"He's a merry fellow," the Indian remarked to Yogi. "I must introduce myself. Red Dog's the name."
"Johnson's the name," Yogi said. "Yogi Johnson."
"Oh, we are all quite familiar with your name, Mr. Johnson," Red Dog smiled. "I would like you to meet my friends Mr. Sitting Bull, Mr. Poisoned Buffalo, and Chief Running Skunk-Backwards."
"Sitting Bull's a name I know," Yogi remarked, shaking hands.
