"The following are some alternative routes which could be used by people going home this evening from the City or West End:—
"Clapham Common.—By Elephant, trams and 'buses."—Evening News.
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?"