“Does it mean somepin?”
“Why, ’course it does,” said Ma. “’Course it does.”
AL STROLLED down the street toward the dancing platform. Outside a neat little tent he whistled softly, and then moved along the street. He walked to the edge of the grounds and sat down in the grass.
The clouds over the west had lost the red edging now, and the cores were black. Al scratched his legs and looked toward the evening sky.
In a few moments a blond girl walked near; she was pretty and sharp-featured. She sat down in the grass beside him and did not speak. Al put his hand on her waist and walked his fingers around.
“Don’t,” she said. “You tickle.”
“We’re goin’ away tomorra,” said Al.
She looked at him, startled. “Tomorra? Where?”
“Up north,” he said lightly.
“Well, we’re gonna git married, ain’t we?”