You don't look the part.

Only for that stuff you unwrapped, I'd tag you for a wild and woolly cowboy." His tone was not flattering, and his very frank skepticism ill became a tramp.

But Johnny had plunged, and he swallowed his indignation and explained with sufficient truth to be convincing.

He even confessed that he could not fly--yet.

There was something pathetic in his eagerness and his trustfulness, though Bland Halliday seemed to miss altogether the pathos, in his greed for technical details of the damage to the plane, and a crafty inquisitiveness as to distance and location.
He smoked another of Johnny's cigarettes, stared opaquely at the sweltering little village and meditated, while Johnny wrapped his parcels and tied them securely, and waited nervously for the decision.
"I wish I'd happened along before you sent for that stuff," Halliday remarked at last, flicking Johnny's face with a glance.