THE TORRENTS OF SPRING 67
two human forms came crashing down the ladder. From above floated the dark, haunting sound of black Negro laughter.
The two woods Indians picked themselves up from the straw and limped toward the door. One of them, the little one, was crying. Yogi followed them out into the cold night. It was cold. The night was clear. The stars were out.
"Club no damn good," the big Indian said. "Club heap no damn good."
The little Indian was crying. Yogi, in the starlight, saw that he had lost one of his artificial arms.
"Me no play pool no more," the little Indian sobbed. He shook his one arm at the window of the club, from which a thin slit of light came. "Club heap goddam hell no good."
"Never mind," Yogi said. "I'll get you a job in the pump-factory."
"Pump-factory, hell," the big Indian said. "We all go join Salvation Army."
"Don't cry," Yogi said to the little Indian. "I'll buy you a new arm."
The little Indian went on crying. He sat down in the snowy road. "No can play pool me no care about nothing," he said.
From above them, out of the window of the club came the haunting sound of a Negro laughing.
Author's Note to the Reader
In case it may have any historical value, I am glad to state that I wrote the foregoing chapter in two hours di-
