He was awakened by the crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, and a clamour of birds. He was driving slowly at a low level over a broad land lit golden by sunrise under a clear sky. He stared out upon hedgeless, well-cultivated fields intersected by roads, each lined with cable-bearing red poles. He had just passed over a compact, whitewashed, village with a straight church tower and steep red-tiled roofs. A number of peasants, men and women, in shiny blouses and lumpish footwear, stood regarding him, arrested on their way to work. He was so low that the end of his rope was trailing.
He stared out at these people. “I wonder how you land,” he thought.
“S'pose I OUGHT to land?”
He found himself drifting down towards a mono-rail line, and hastily flung out two or three handfuls of ballast to clear it.
“Lemme see! One might say just 'Pre'nez'! Wish I knew the French for take hold of the rope!... I suppose they are French?”
He surveyed the country again. “Might be Holland. Or Luxembourg. Or Lorraine 's far as I know. Wonder what those big affairs over there are? Some sort of kiln. Prosperous-looking country...”
The respectability of the country's appearance awakened answering chords in his nature.
“Make myself a bit ship-shape first,” he said.
He resolved to rise a little and get rid of his wig (which now felt hot on his head), and so forth. He threw out a bag of ballast, and was astonished to find himself careering up through the air very rapidly.
“Blow!” said Mr. Smallways. “I've over-done the ballast trick.... Wonder when I shall get down again?... brekfus' on board, anyhow.”