excerpt
Poodie grinned at Torgerson, gestured with the bottle, pointed
at the spot by the Ford’s tire and grunted an explanation.
“Put that bottle back where you found it and get on out of here.”
Poodie watched intently as Torgerson indicated the tire. His face
darkened. Torgerson saw the little man’s neck muscles working.
He advanced a step. Poodie moved his grip to the neck of the bottle
and lowered it to his side.
“I don’t want you around here. Go on.”
Poodie’s gaze was intent on Torgerson’s face. For thirty seconds
the tall man and the short one were as motionless as posts, then
Poodie put the bottle precisely where it had been and paddled off
down the avenue toward First Street, resuming his explanation,
looking back to smile again at Torgerson. A woman passing by
slowly shook her head at the mayor, a commentary he interpreted
in his favor as he launched a scowl at the little man.
That smile. He knows, Torgerson thought. The dumb little
bastard has always known.
Winifred Stone regarded her managing editor for a long time
before she spoke.
“The facts are, Sonny, that mentioning Mr. Truman favorably
does not constitute an endorsement, the election is two months away,
and the man came here and made himself look pretty good. I know
the Republicans in this valley about as well as you do, I think, and I
know that if we say one good thing about him, we’ll get a dozen letters
in tomorrow’s morning mail. At least four of them will call me a
Communist, and I can tell you who the writers will be. If I could get
that dam built and avoid being hanged in the street, I guess I can survive
a few good words about the President of the United States. This
meeting of the editorial board is over. Run it as we have discussed.”
“One other thing,” her son said. “Pete Torgerson has been raising
hell to anyone who’ll listen about the hobos camping along the
tracks.”
“As they have been since the railroad punched through here in
1892.”
Hellenic Canadian Literature 