From five thousand feet Johnny volplaned steeply to four thousand, and Schwab’s sentences became disconnected phrases that ended mostly in exclamation points.  So pleased was Johnny with the effect that he flew in scallops from there on—­not unmindful of the two scouting planes that picked him up when he recrossed the line and dogged him from there on.

“I suppose,” snorted Johnny to the Thunder Bird, “they think they’re about the only real flyers in the air this morning.  What?  Can’t you show ’em an Arizona sample of flying?  What you loafing for?  Think you’re heading a funeral?  Well, now, this is just about the proudest moment you’ve spent for quite some time.  This man Schwab—–­he craves excitement.  Can’t you hear him holler for thrills?  And don’t you reckon that Captain Riley will be cocking an eye up at the sky about now, looking to see you come back.  Come, come—­shake a wing, here, and show ’em what you’re good for!”

Whether the Thunder Bird heard and actually did shake a wing does not matter.  Johnny remembered that he had yet some miles to fly, and proceeded to put those miles behind him in as straight a line as possible.  Schwab’s voice came back to him in snatches, though the words were mostly foreign to Johnny’s ears.  Schwab seemed to be indulging in expletives of some sort.

“Don’t worry, sauerkraut, we’ll show you a good time soon as we get along a few miles.  There’s some birds behind us I’m leading home first.”

“My God, don’t go straight down again!  It makes me sick,” wailed Schwab.

“Does?  Oh, glory!  That ain’t nothing when you get used to it, man.  Be a regular guy and like it.  I’ll make you like it, by golly.  Come on, now—­here’s San Diego—­let’s give ’em a treat, sauerkraut.  You never knew you’d turn out to be a stunt flyer, hey?  Well, now, how’s this?”

“Whee-ee!  See the town right down there?  Head for it and keep a-goin’, old girl! Whee-ee!  Now, here it goes, sliding right up over our heads!  Loop ’er, Thunder Bird, loop ’er!  You’re the little old plane from Arizona that’s rode the thunder and made it growl it had enough!  In Mexico I got yuh, and to Mexico you went and got me a regular jailbird that Uncle Sammy wants.  You’re takin’ him to camp—­whoo-ee!  Give your tail a flop and over yuh go like a doggone tumbleweed in the wind!

“Come on, you little ole cop planes that thinks you’re campin’ on my trail!  You’ll have to ride and whip ’em, now I’m tellin’ yuh, if you want to keep in sight of our dust!  Sunfish for ’em, you doggone Thunder Bird!  You’re the flyin’ bronk from Arizona, and it’s your day to fly!”

With the first loop Schwab went sick, and after that he had no wish except to die.  Whether the Thunder Bird rode head down or tail down he neither knew nor cared.  Nor did Johnny.  As he yelled he looped and he dived, he did tail spins and every other spin that occurred to him.  For the time being he was “riding straight up and fanning her ears,” and his aerial bronk was pulling off stunts he would never have attempted in cold blood.