"'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?'