“And don’t forget you once passed Hendon in the train too, old son,” I soothed him.  “I’d no idea you were so well up in it.  Sorry I spoke.  Let’s see it; may I?”

Harris picked up a couple of sheets of paper from the desk and, coughing imposingly, proceeded to read out his masterpiece:—­

“Lionel Marchant came slowly out of the hangar, drawing on his long fur gloves and studying his maps with an intent and keen face.

“His machine, a single-seater scout of the latest type, was just being wheeled out and now stood glistening in the bright autumn sunshine, which danced on the shining brasswork and threw deep shadows on the grass beneath.

“The airman swung lightly into his seat; a final word or two with his commanding officer and he flung over the levers and gave a sharp turn to the starting handle.

“The powerful engine in front of him woke into life deafeningly and, waving away the mechanics holding the wings, he pressed the clutch pedal and moved slowly forward.

“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?’