Tex caught the boot dexterously without interrupting his song, except that he forgot the words and sang ta-da-da-da to the end of the verse.

“Po’try was wrote to be read,” he replied sententiously when he had finished.  “And tunes was made to be sung.  And yo’ all oughta be proud to death at the way yo’ all made a hit with yore po’try.  It beats what Mary V wrote, Skyrider.  If yo’ all want to know my honest opinion, Mary V’s plumb sore because yo’ all made up po’try about Venus instid of about her.”  He sat down on a corner of the littered table and began to roll a cigarette, jerking his head towards the bungalow and lowering one eyelid slowly.  “Girls, I’m plumb next to ’em, Skyrider.  I growed up with four of ‘em.  Mary V loves that there Venus stuff, and kissin’ her snow-white hand, same as a cat loves snow.  Jealous—­that’s what’s bitin’ Mary V.”

Johnny was sorting letters, mostly circulars and “follow up” letters from various aviation schools.  He looked up suspiciously at Tex, but Tex manifested none of the symptoms of sly “kidding.”  Tex was smoking meditatively and gazing absently at Johnny’s suitcase.

“Yo’ all ain’t quittin’?” Tex roused himself to ask.  “Not over a little josh?  Say, you’re layin’ yoreself wide open to more of the same.  Yo’ all wants to take it the way it’s meant, Skyrider.  Listen here, boy, if yo’ all wants to git away from the ranch right now, why don’t yo’ all speak for to stay at Sinkhole camp?  Yo’ all could have mo’ time to write po’try an’ study up on flyin’ machines, down there.  And Pete, he’s aimin’ to quit the first.  He don’t like it down there.”

Johnny dropped the letters back into his suitcase and sat down on the side of his bed to smoke.  His was not the nature to hold a grudge, and Tex seemed to be friendly.  Still, his youthful dignity had been very much hurt, and by Tex as much as the other boys.  He gave him a supercilious glance.

“I don’t know where you get the idea that I’m a quitter,” he said pettishly.  “First I knew that a bunch of rough-necks could kid me out of a job.  Go down to Sinkhole yourself, if you’re so anxious about that camp.  Furthermore,” he added stiffly, “it’s nobody’s business but mine what I write or study, or where I write and study.  So don’t set there trying to look wise, Tex—­telling me what to do and how to do it.  You can’t put anything over on me; your work is too raw.  Al-to-gether too raw!”

He glanced sidewise at a circular letter he had dropped, picked it up and began reading it slowly, one eye squinted against the smoke of his cigarette, his manner that of supreme indifference to Tex and all his kind.  Johnny could be very, very indifferent when he chose.

He did not really believe that Tex was trying to put anything over on him; he just said that to show Tex he didn’t give a darn one way or the other.  But Tex seemed to take it seriously, and glowered at Johnny from under his black eyebrows that had a hawklike arch.