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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