“By golly, I can stand one night here, any way,” he reassured himself finally, and took a long breath.

Just then a bell boy tapped discreetly on the door, and when Johnny opened it he slipped in with a pitcher of ice water, which he carried to a table with the air of a loyal henchman serving his king, which means that he was thinking of tips.  In the exuberance of his fresh sensation of affluence and his gratitude for the service, Johnny pulled off a five-dollar bill and gave it to the boy.  The bell boy said, “Thank you, sir,” and added breathlessly, “Gee, I wish I was an aviator, Mr. Jewel!”

Sir and Mister all in one breath, and to be called an aviator besides had a perceptible effect upon Johnny.  He swaggered across the room that had a moment ago awed him to the point of wanting to walk on his toes.  Of course he was an aviator!  Hadn’t he been flying in his own plane?  What more did it take, for gosh sake?  A pilot’s license was a mere detail, alongside the night he had made that day.  He should say he was an aviator!

The ’phone tinkled.  A man from the Times wanted to talk with him, it seemed.  Johnny gruffly told him over the house ’phone that he didn’t care to be interviewed.  “You boys get too fresh,” he censured.  “You don’t stick to facts.  You’re going to get in trouble if you don’t let up on me.  I hate this publicity stuff, anyway.  I wish you’d go off somewhere and die quietly and leave me alone.”

“Well, just let me come up and explain,” the reporter urged.  “All I want is a story of your flight across country.  You’re mistaken if you think I’m guilty of—­”

“Oh, well, if that’s all you want.  But I’m just about off reporters for life.  You’ll have to do some apologizing, believe me!”

Johnny was sprawled on the nice, white bed, with his boot heels cocked up on the expensive mahogany footboard.  He had the two big, puffy pillows wadded under his head and the reading lamp lighted and throwing a rosy shadow on his tanned countenance.  The smoking set was pulled close and he was reaching for a match when the reporter knocked.

“Come in,” he called boredly, and fanned the smoke from before his face that he might look upon this unwelcome visitor who was going to apologize for the sins of his colleagues in Arizona.

The reporter, once he was inside, did not look apologetic, nor did he resemble a reporter, as Johnny knew them.  He was a slim young man, tall enough to wear his clothes like the Apollos you see pictured in tailors’ advertisements.  Indeed, he much resembled those young men.  He wore light gray, with the coat buttoned at the bottom and loose over his manly chest.  He also wore a gray hat tilted over one temple in the approved style for illustrated catalogues.  He had gray gloves crumpled in one hand and a cane in the other, and he stood with his immaculately shod feet slightly apart, gently swung the cane, and regarded Johnny with a faint smile of extreme boredom.