"His face is very grim and determined--he throws across another lever and the low hum of the motor changes into a deep-throated roar. Gathering speed, he goes faster and faster--now he is in the air--now a little speck in the sky, heading for the enemy's lines--" "Oh, no, please," I broke in feebly. "I can't stand any more just now. You're not seriously thinking of having this published, are you?" As in a dream I took the manuscript from his fingers and gazed blankly at it whilst his indignant flow of speech passed harmlessly over my head. "But, Harris," I said at length, with infinite compassion in my voice, "Harris, I love you as a brother, but this really is awful--why--well, listen here"-- "'As the second German machine came down on them in a steep dive Lionel gave a hasty glance behind him, where the huge engine raced madly, and shouted excitedly to his observer. "'The latter, swinging the machine gun round sharply, took rapid aim and pressed the trigger--'" I stopped. "Well?" demanded the author icily. "No, it's too frightful," I bleated. "Harris, this _might_ conceivably be read by a real pilot. Heaven forbid, of course! And he'd simply hate this scout 'bus with the engine ahead to change into a 'pusher' two-seater in six paragraphs." Harris was routed, absolutely demoralised. "They told me to put in lots of flying talk," he murmured abjectly, "and tons of local colour to make it lifelike." "Yes," I said grimly, "but this colour's too local for words." "Of course, if you think you could do it better yourself," Harris observed with heavy sarcasm, "well, then--" "Certainly," I agreed heartily. "I don't mind showing _you_, Harris, seeing you're a pal of mine. Just pass the ink and let your uncle get to work." Behold my effort!-- "'Orderly, what about tea?' "'Very nearly ready, Sir.' "'Right. Then I think a small piece of toast is indicated;' and he proceeded to hack the loaf to pieces with great vigour. "'Hun over somewhere, sounds like,' said a sleepy voice as the throb of an engine was heard overhead. "'Oh, I can't help his troubles,' observed the toast-maker airily. 'He's got no right to come at tea-time. In about half-an-hour or so I might think about--' "Here the telephone bell rang. "'Now that's a splendid joke,' said his unfeeling friend as he laid down the receiver. 'You've got to go up after that chap. They're getting your 'bus out now, so--' "'What!' came in disgusted tones from the fireside. 'Don't be so dam funny. What do you mean?' "'Not ragging, really, Bill. The C.O. said he wanted you to have a shot at that fellow. Run like a hare. You may catch him up over Berlin somewhere. I'll eat your toast for you.' "'Oh, will you?' grunted the other. 'What awful rot it is! Oh, the devil--where's my hat?' and out he plunged. "Two minutes later he was struggling into a heavy leather coat and, feeling thoroughly ill-used, climbed into his machine. "The propeller was swung, emitting one hollow cough.