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