He hustled Bland around to such good purpose that by the time the reporters had trailed him to the hangar he was already in his seat and was barking "Contact!" at Bland, who was unhappily turning the propeller at stated intervals and wondering when he would ever again have a square meal, and hoping that no misfortune would delay their arrival at the Rolling R, where he remembered hungrily certain past achievements of the cook.
"Going back to your Indian tribe ?" one smiling, sandy-haired fellow called out to Johnny.
"No.

I'm going to the Rolling R!" Johnny retorted unguardedly.
"Ready, Bland?
Contact!" The motor started, and Bland pulled down his cap.

"His best girl lives at the Rolling R.

He's goin' to see her," he informed the sandy-haired man as he passed him.

"They're engaged." He climbed up and took his place, tickled at the chance to hand out more "dope." The sandy-haired one seemed tickled, too, until he saw that his ears had not been the only ones to drink in Bland's words.
They moved hastily aside as the big plane swung round and went down the field like a running plover.