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!_" Bud said more; a great deal more.

But Johnny flopped over on the other side, buried his head under the blankets, and let them talk.
Cue-balls--that was all their heads were good for.