OVER THE TELEPHONE That night Johnny spread his blankets in a spot where he could lie and look at his airplane with the moon shining full upon it and throwing a shadow like a great, black bird with outstretched wings on the sand.

He had to lie where he could look at it, else he could not have lain there at all.

He was like a child that falls asleep with a new, long-coveted toy clasped tight in its two hands.

He worried himself into a headache over the difficulties of transporting it unharmed over the miles of untracked desert country to Sinkhole.

He was afraid the mules would run away with it, or upset it somehow.