Johnny, primed by the two rides he had taken—­for a price—­the fall before, stepped nimbly up and straddled into the pilot’s seat.  He found out, by actual experimentation, what wires tilted the ailerons, which ones operated the elevators.  “Mhm-hmh—­dep control here,” he commented; whereupon the brother of Tomaso squirmed, thinking Johnny had discovered a fatal flaw somewhere.

With one eye still squinted against cigarette smoke that did not rise, Johnny climbed out and walked back along the fuselage to the tail.  “Mhm-hmh—­I thought so!” he ejaculated, staring severely at the elevators.  “This is bad—­pret-ty darn bad!  They musta done a tail-slide and pancaked.  That’s ba-ad.”  He removed the smokeless cigarette from his lips, looked at it, felt for a match, and shook his head slowly while he drew the match across a hot rock at his feet.

“Jus’ broke little small,” Tomaso’s brother’s voice came pleadingly from behind Johnny.  “You can feex him easy.  She’s fine airship, you bet!”

Johnny turned and looked at him pityingly.  “Say, where do you get that stuff?” he inquired.  “A hell of a lot you know about airships—­bringing me off down here to see this!  Say! where’s the fuselage at?” he abruptly demanded.

Tomaso’s brother gazed at the machine with tragic eyes.  “Me, I’m seen it here ontil this time I come,” he declared virtuously.  “I’m not touch notheeng.  That fuz’lawge, she’s right here las’ time I’m here.  I’m not touch notheeng but one little small hammer, one pliers.  You find him up there, I bet.”  Tomaso’s brother pointed to the pilot’s seat.

“Hunh! a lot you know about it!” snorted Johnny, and turned and walked away to the other side of the machine where Tomaso’s brother could not see him grin.

“No matter what kind of a cheese you are, you must know an airplane can’t fly without a fuselage,” he grumbled to the unhappy brother of Tomaso.  “Without that the plane’s no good to me or anybody else.  You better get busy and hunt it up.”

Tomaso’s brother tied the horses to the nearest bush and got busy, volubly protesting all the while that he had not touched a thing, and that if Tomaso really had carried off the fuz’lawge, he would presently make that young devil wish he had never been born.

“Maybe the aviators dropped it back there on the edge of the basin when they were coming down,” Johnny suggested, and laid himself down in the shade of the plane to smoke and dream and gloat.  He felt that he would burst into insane and costly whoops if he attempted another minute’s repression.  And he knew that Tomaso’s brother would bleed him of his last dollar if he guessed one half of Johnny’s exultation; wherefore the ruse to send Tomaso’s brother off on a senseless quest.

“Oh, golly!  Oh-h, good golly!” he murmured ecstatically, his eyes taking in the full sweep of the great wings.  “It’s too good to be true.  No, it ain’t; it’s too good not to be true!  You wait.  I’ll show the Rolling R bunch—­you wait!”