LOCAL COLOUR.
I ran upstairs after lunch to-day to see old Harris. He has the flat over mine, you know. In addition to this Harris is an author. Sometimes he even gets money for it.
"Doin' a bit of work to-day, Harris?" I remarked casually.
"I'm doing a little flying story," he informed me with dignity.
"Oh, yes," I agreed carelessly, then woke up and stared hard.
"Flying?" I repeated. "But what the—I mean, what do you know about flying, anyway?"
Brutality is the only thing with Harris. He was very hurt. He gasped and glared at me in a most annoyed manner.
"I know a pretty good lot," he announced with some asperity. "I've talked to dozens of pilots about it and I've read books on flying—and the newspapers—"
"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?'
"'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.
"'Switch off. All right, contact.'
"At the third attempt the engine remembered its manners and started up with a jerk. A few moments to get her running smoothly, a rapid test to see that she was 'giving her revs.' and the chocks, were waved away from the wheels.
"Within twenty yards he was off the ground and, throttle wide open, climbing towards the little white dot thousands of feet above.
"And all the time he was grumbling.
"'What awful rot it is! I've about as much chance of reaching the blighter as ... Running my engine to bits as it is ... May be able to cut him off when he's dropped his eggs.'
"Which is precisely what happened. The last gift had been thankfully received in a ploughed field beneath and the Hun was turning for home when the scout struggled to his level.
"The watchers on the ground saw the small machine press determinedly towards the bigger and a faint crackle of gun-fire broke out.
"It was answered by all the guns on board the enemy craft and the single-seater wavered undecidedly.
"Then he got his adversary fairly in his ring sight again and' risking everything, fired burst after burst.
"All at once the big machine heeled over and dived—a flash and a sudden sheet of flame from the engine and down dropped the raider, to dash to pieces in the French fields three miles below.
"Ten minutes later the British machine slithered on to the ground and switched off in front of the sheds.
"'By Jove, Bill,' said his friend, rushing up excitedly, 'that was the best show—'
"'Not so much of it,' interposed the 'hero,' scrambling out of his seat. 'What about my tea? Did you look after my toast for me? No, might have known you wouldn't.'"
WHAT OUR POETS HAVE TO PUT UP WITH.
"They who faced the terrors of the deep, Who guarded our snores-while we were asleep."
Scottish Paper.
"Though his career was entirely that of a public servant, he had personality and that self-evident efficiency which mark a man out for promotion."—Times.
That "though" is rather cynical.