"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."