"Telephone be damned!" I managed to shout. "Get back to your seat. Don't play monkey-tricks up here."
If you can imagine yourself fourteen thousand feet above the earth, sitting in an aeroplane, and the pilot letting go all his controls, as he stands on his feet shouting in your ear, you will be able to realise, but only to a very slight extent, what my feelings were at this precise moment.
He returned to his seat. He was smiling. I fumbled about underneath and found the tube. Putting it to my mouth, I asked him what he meant by it.
"That's all right, my dear chap," he said, "there's no need to get alarmed. The old bus will go along merrily on its own."
"I'll believe all you say. In fact I'll believe anything you like to tell me, but I'd much rather you sit in your seat and control the machine," I replied.
He chuckled, apparently enjoying the joke to the full, but during the remainder of the journey I made sure I was not sitting on the speaking tube.
The mist was gradually clearing now. The sun shone gloriously, the clouds, a long way beneath us, looked more substantial; through the gaps in their fleecy whiteness the earth appeared. It seemed a long time since I had seen it. We were again coming to the edge of a cloud bank. The atmosphere beyond was exceedingly clear.
"We are nearly home," said my companion. "Are you going to take any more scenes?"
"Yes," I said, "I suppose you'll spiral down?"
"Right-ho!"