He made haste to disclaim. “Not at all: decidedly not in the least. But the chances were for less agreeable associates.” I bowed. “And a bargain’s a bargain,” he wound up.
“So it is,” said I. “Byfield, hand Mr. Sheepshanks back his five pounds.”
“O, come now!” the aëronaut objected. “And who may you be, to be ordering a man about?”
“I believe I have already answered that question twice in your hearing.”
“Mosha the Viscount Thingamy de Something-or-other? I dare say!”
“Have you any objection?”
“Not the smallest. For all I care, you are Robert Burns, or Napoleon Buonaparte, or anything, from the Mother of the Gracchi to Balaam’s Ass. But I knew you first as Mr. Ducie; and you may take it that I’m Mr. Don’t-see.” He reached up a hand towards the valve-string.
“What are you proposing to do?”
“To descend.”
“What?—back to the enclosure?”