Девять рассказов
The Laughing Man
Thenheturnedaroundandwalkeddowntohomeplateandpickedupourtwobats;wealwaysleftthebatsforhimtocarry.IwentovertohimandaskedifheandMaryHudsonhadhadafight.Hetoldmetotuckmyshirtin.
Justasalways,weComanchesranthelastfewhundredfeettotheplacewherethebuswasparked,yelling,shoving,tryingoutstrangleholdsoneachother,butallofusalivetothefactthatitwasagaintimefor"TheLaughingMan."RacingacrossFifthAvenue,somebodydroppedhisextraordiscardedsweater,andItrippedoveritandwentsprawling.Ifinishedthechargetothebus;butthebestseatsweretakenbythattimeandIhadtositdowninthemiddleofthebus.Annoyedatthearrangement,Igavetheboysittingonmyrightapokeintheribswithmyelbow,thenfacedaroundandwatchedtheChiefcrossoverFifth.Itwasnotyetdarkout,butafive-fifteendimnesshadsetin.TheChiefcrossedthestreetwithhiscoatcollarup,thebatsunderhisleftarm,andhisconcentrationonthestreet.Hisblackhair,whichhadbeencombedwetearlierintheday,wasdrynowandblowing.IrememberwishingtheChiefhadgloves.
Thebus,asusual,wasquietwhenheclimbedin—asproportionatelyquiet,atanyrate,asatheatrewithdimminghouselights.Conversationswerefinishedinahurriedwhisperorshutoffcompletely.Nonetheless,thefirstthingtheChiefsaidtouswas"Allright,let’scutoutthenoise,ornostory."
