“It went off accidentally,” protested the man.
“I don’t care. He shot.”
“He’ll not do it again,” I promised, complacently.
My unlucky triumph must have crept into my voice. I felt her appraise with deliberate eye my sixty-six scant inches. Nothing “hips” me more than an inference that I am short. To be sure, I am not a giant physically. Neither was Napoleon.
“I’m sorry not to meet with your approbation,” I said huffily.
“Oh, I did not say that. It would be unjust. You can’t help being little,” she was pleased to say, and I swear I heard the chuckle in her voice.
“Any more than you can help being offensive when you are in the humor.”
“Don’t take it so to heart. You may grow yet. You are very young, you know.”
“Perhaps I am de trop. Very likely you were looking for somebody else when you came galloping down the hill,” I said sulkily.
“I was looking for a man.” Her casual eye swept the valley. Tavis Q. Damron really did not appear to be on the map.