So was Johnny, but he would not say a word to save their lives. In spite
of himself he heard a howl of glee when some genius among them declaimed
loudly: "_Johnny volluped into Job's Coffin, and Venus she most died
a-lawfin!_"

Johnny gave a grunt of contempt, and the genius, who happened to be Bud,
lifted his head off the pillow and stared at the black shadow where
Johnny lay curled up like a cat.

"What's the matter with that, Skyrider? Kain't I make up po'try if I want
to?"

"Sure. Help yourself--you poor fish. Vollup! _Hunh!_" The contempt was
even more pronounced than before.

"Well? What's the matter with that? You said it yourself. And look out
how you go peddlin' names around here. You think nobody knows anything
but you! You're the little boy that invented flyin'--got the idea from
yore own head, by thunder, when it swelled up like a balloon with
self-conceit! That there gas-head of yourn'll take yuh right up amongst
the clouds some day, and you won't need no flyin' machine, neither!
Skyrider--is--_right_!" Accidentally Johnny had touched Bud's self-esteem
in a tender spot. "And that's no kidding, either!" he clinched his
meaning. "Punch a hole in yore skelp, and I'll bet that big haid of yourn
would wizzle all up like them red balloons they sell at circuses! You--"

"_Hm-m-m!_ Just so it ain't all solid bone like yours," Johnny came back
at him with youth's full quota of scorn. "Keep away from pool rooms, Bud.
Somebody is liable to take your head off and use it for a cue-ball.
_Vollup! Hunh!_"