The Cat's Pajamas by Ray Bradbury Read Free Book Online Page B

to control his smile but was unable to do so.
    He looked up at the huge Indian chief and said, “Now yours.”
    Thunder sounded above.
    The interpreter said, “First, let’s see your hand.”
    The president of the United States turned his cards over. They totaled nineteen.
    â€œNow you,” whispered the president.
    Thunder rolled again and the small Indian said, “You win.”
    â€œHow can you tell?” said the president, “if you don’t turn your cards over? Perhaps you have twenty, or twenty-one.”
    The weather changed high in the room and the little Indian said, “You win. The country is yours. But, one last small item.”
    He handed the president a piece of paper.
    The paper was inscribed: Twenty-six dollars and ninety cents.
    â€œThat,” said the small Indian, “is the same amount of money paid for Manhattan many moons ago.”
    The president took out his billfold.
    A voice rumbled from on high.
    â€œHe says, small bills only,” said the interpreter.
    The president handed over the money and the redwood’s huge hand reached out and took it.
    Up toward the ceiling the voice rumbled again.
    â€œWhat now?” asked the president.
    The interpreter translated. “He says he hopes you will build many ships and he will come to the harbor to bid you farewell on your journey back to wherever you came from.”
    â€œHe said that, did he?”
    The president of the United States stared at the cards, still untouched, on the table.
    â€œDon’t I get to see, to make sure I haven’t gypped you?”
    The small Indian shook his head.
    The president went to the door, turned, and said, “What’s this about sailing? I’m not going anywhere.”
    A voice whispered from above.
    â€œOh no?”
    And the president of the United States snuck out, followed by his senators.

WE’LL JUST A CT NATURAL
1948–1949
    I T WAS ABOUT SEVEN in the evening. Susan kept getting up and looking out the porch window, down off the hill at the railroad tracks, the trains running in, the smoke rising. The red and green lights were reflected in her wide brown eyes. In the darkness, her plump hand was a darker darkness. She kept pressing her mouth and looking at the clock. “That old clock must be fast,” she said. “That crazy old tin clock.”
    â€œAin’t no crazy clock,” said Linda, in the corner, a stack of phonograph records in her black hands, scuffling them through. She picked one out, eyed it, put it on the Grafanola, and cranked the machine. “Why’nt you just sit down and unworry yourself, Mom?”
    â€œMy feet is still in good shape,” said Susan. “I’m not so old.”
    â€œHe comin’, he comin’, that’s all. An’ if he ain’t comin’, he ain’t,” said Linda. “You can’t push that train any faster or flop them signals up and down. What time he say he comin’?”
    â€œSeven-fifteen he said the train was, here for half an hour, on his way to New York, and he’d stop, said he’d just take that taxi right here, said not to try to meet him at the station.”
    â€œHe ashamed, that’s why,” sneered Linda.
    â€œYou shut up, or get on home!” said Susan at her daughter. “He’s a good man. I worked for his family when he’s no bigger’n my hand. Used to carry him downtown on my shoulder. He’s not ashamed!”
    â€œThat’s a long time ago, fifteen years; he’s big now.”
    â€œHe sent me his book, didn’t he?” cried Susan indignantly. She reached out her hand to the worn chair and picked the book up and opened it and read from the inscription on the title page. “To my dear Mammy Susan, with all my love, from Richard Borden.” She snapped the book shut. “There you are!”
    â€œThat don’t mean nothin’, that’s just writin’, anyone