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.

"What yo' all think I'm trying to put over? Hey? What yo' all mean by
that statement?"