Chapter 1<br >Flann O Phelan shifted his<br >other, glancing nervously<br >weight from one foot to the<br >about at the flames in the<br >marble-faced fireplace and then at the gilt wallpaper<br >l~etween the arched windows. In a mirror, he glimpsed<br >his red hair flaring above the sober black of his frock<br >coat.<br > On the small writing table beside him lay a reed-<br >stemmed pipe with a red stone bowl. Flann tried to fo-<br >cus his attention on it. This must be the famous Indian<br >pipe he d heard about, the bowl made from catlinite<br >quarried in the Minnesota Territory, the red stone aU<br >the Indian tribes used for their calumets.<br > Walking along Pennsylvania Avenue on his way<br >to the White House, he had seen an Indian out for a<br >stroll, wearing buckskin clothes decorated with beads<br >and a bonnet of feathers atop his head. Flann had<br >stopped to stare, only to earn a laugh from a store-<br >keeper in the doorway of his shop.<br > "There s painted Indians on this street all the<br >time, always visiting the Great White Father, or trying<br >©³©¥©·<br >©§ ©§<br >©»©¥©¿<br ><br >
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