THE TORRENTS OF SPRING 65
arms. He had just run the table for the eleventh consecutive time.
"That little chap would have made a pool-player in he hadn't had a bit of hard luck in the war," Red Dog remarked. "Would you like to have a look about the club?" He took the check from Bruce, signed it, and Yogi followed him into the next room.
"Our committee room," Red Dog said. On the walls were framed autographed photographs of Chief Bender, Francis Parkman, D. H. Lawrence, Chief Meyers, Stewart Edward White, Mary Austin, Jim Thorpe, General Custer, Glenn Warner, Mabel Dodge, and a full-length oil painting of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Beyond the committee room was a locker room with a small plunge bath or swimming-pool. "It's really ridiculously small for a club," Red Dog said. "But it makes a comfortable little hole to pop into when the evenings are dull." He smiled. "We call it the wigwam, you know. That's a little conceit of my own."
"It's a damned nice club," Yogi said enthusiastically.
"Put you up if you like," Red Dog offered. "What's your tribe?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your tribe. What are you—Sac and Fox? Jibway? Cree, I imagine."
"Oh," said Yogi. "My parents came from Sweden."
Red Dog looked at him closely. His eyes narrowed.
"You're not having me on?"
"No. They either came from Sweden or Norway," Yogi said.
"I'd have sworn you looked a bit on the white side," Red Dog said. "Damned good thing this came out in
