Dorney and Grandpa

“I don’t know what George [Cassidy] done except have a ripsnorting high old time like always. Went to the dances Saturday nights. George, he’s a fellow that’s very light on his feet, ain’t a dance that stumps him. One little lady up there—rancher’s daughter—she was pretty far gone on him, I guess. Very near had her heart busted. Same way with several.”

     Dorney lifted up her chin.

     “Put a claim on George yourself, huh?” he teased, eyeing her. “Got your dander up, huh?”

     She looked down.

     “Because just as well try to catch the wind, is all the advice I can give you.”

     She looked up again. (Not catch, you know. Be, you know. Somebody on the go, Grandpa. No more no, no. Nobody on the watch. Going, Grandpa. Person’s own boss. World spread out all over. Horse a-flying. Catching, Grandpa? Being.)

     “When I get big,” she began, and stopped helplessly.

     “Yes, ma’am.”

     “I’ll—” She stopped again.

     “Yes, ma’am.”

     “I’ll certainly—”

     He waited a moment. “You better not,” he said. “There may be a law agin it.” He smiled at her. “But on the other hand, there may not be.”

     --From Good Morning, Young Lady