“I know—­you think I’m a bum and all that; maybe you think I’m a crook, fer all I know.  And you turn up your nose at anything I say.  But lemme tell yuh, old top, I ain’t a D. and O. because I never made any money flyin’.  It’s because I blowed what I made.  And it’s because I made so damn’ much it went to my head and made a fool outa me.  Listen here, bo:  I bought me a Stutz outa what I earned flyin’ in one season—­and I blowed money right and left and smashed the car and like to of broke my neck, and had to pay damages to the other feller that peeled my roll down to the size of a pencil.  The point is, it took money to do them things, didn’t it?  And I made it flyin’ my own plane.  That’s what you want to soak into your system. I made big money flying.  What I done with the money don’t need to worry you—­you ain’t copyin’ me for morals.

“Now what you want to do is learn some stunts, first off.  You learn to loop and tail-slide and the fallin’ leaf, and to write your name, and them things.  It ain’t so hard—­not for a guy like you that ain’t got sense enough to be afraid of nothing.  The way you went off in that plane with the girl made my hair stand on end, and that’s no kiddin’, neither.  If you’d had a fear germ in your system you wouldn’t ‘a’ done that.  But you done it, and got away with it, is the point.  And you been gittin’ away with it right along—­and you not knowin’ your motor any more’n I know ridin’ on a horse!”

“Aw, say!  That’s goin’ too far,” protested Johnny, but Bland gave him no heed.

“You learn the stunts—­early in the morning when there ain’t the hull town out to rubber—­and then pull off an exhibition or two.  Seventy-five dollars is the least you ever need to expect.  Don’t go in the air for less.  From that up—­depends on how spectacular you are.  The public loves to watch for the death fall.  That’s what they pay to see—­not hopin’ you get killed, but not wantin’ to miss seeing it in case yuh do.  And with this the only airplane around here—­why, say, bo, it’s a cinch!”

Johnny fanned the smoke away from his face and eyed Bland with lofty tolerance.  “And where do you expect to come in?  You needn’t kid yourself into hoping I’ll take you for a self-forgetful martyr person.  What’s the little joker, Bland?”

Bland turned his pale, opaque stare upon Johnny for a minute.  “Aw, for cat’s sake, gimme the doubt, bo!  I’m human in more ways than tryin’ to see how much booze I kin lap up.  It’s a chance I want to start fresh.  This bumming around ain’t getting me anything.  I’m sick of it.  You gotta be learnt to do exhibition stuff, and I’m the guy that can learn yuh.  You’ll want a mechanician to keep your motor in shape.  I can make a motor, gimme the tools.  You want somebody that knows the game to kinda manage things.  You’re Skyrider Johnny, same as the boys at the ranch calls yuh.  Yon gotta have a flunkey, ain’t yuh?