Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Ihearhimcomingdownthehall,andhesoundsbiginthewayhewalks,andhesuredon’tslide;he’sgotirononhisheelsandheringsitonthefloorlikehorseshoes.Heshowsupinthedoorandstopsandhitcheshisthumbsinhispockets,bootswideapart,andstandstherewiththeguyslookingathim.

           "Goodmornin’,buddies."

           There’sapaperHalloweenbathangingonastringabovehishead;hereachesupandflicksitsoitspinsaround.

           "Mightynicefallday."

           HetalksalittlethewayPapausedto,voiceloudandfullofhell,buthedoesn’tlooklikePapa;Papawasafull-bloodColumbiaIndian—achief—andhardandshinyasagunstock.Thisguyisredheadedwithlongredsideburnsandatangleofcurlsoutfromunderhiscap,beenneedingcutalongtime,andhe’sbroadasPapawastall,broadacrossthejawandshouldersandchest,abroadwhitedevilishgrin,andhe’shardinadifferentkindofwayfromPapa,kindofthewayabaseballishardunderthescuffedleather.Aseamrunsacrosshisnoseandonecheekbonewheresomebodylaidhimagoodoneinafight,andthestitchesarestillintheseam.Hestandstherewaiting,andwhennobodymakesamovetosayanythingtohimhecommencestolaugh.Nobodycantellexactlywhyhelaughs;there’snothingfunnygoingon.Butit’snotthewaythatPublicRelationlaughs,it’sfreeandloudanditcomesoutofhiswidegrinningmouthandspreadsinringsbiggerandbiggertillit’slappingagainstthewallsallovertheward.