And because we allowed the standard of naval superiority to be dangerously reduced Germany took the risk. Result, four years of desperate fighting, a million of British lives lost, and the Empire victorious yet reduced to the verge of commercial ruin. "Mind you, Peter, I'm not a pessimist," continued his uncle. "I'm only stating facts. The onlooker sees the most of the game. Out here I can only judge by what I hear from home—stories of unemployment, industrial strife, class warfare, and all that. In due course we'll get over that. The British Empire isn't done yet—not by a long chalk. Do you know why I wrote and suggested that you should come out to Rioguay?"
Peter shook his head.
"You'll be very much surprised when I tell you, Peter," said Uncle Brian. "It's this."
At that moment there was a knock on the door. A servant entered and said something to his master.
"We'll have to defer explanations," remarked Brian Strong. "I've a visitor—Don Ramon Diaz. He'll interest you, I'm sure."
CHAPTER IV
Don Ramon Diaz
Uncle and nephew rose to receive the belated caller.
Don Ramon Diaz was a tall, swarthy individual, with rather plump features, loose lipped, and with a nose that bore a resemblance to a parrot's beak. His dark hair was long and plastered down with pomade. When he smiled, which was very frequently, the effort was "like the grin of a sea-sick monkey", as Peter afterwards described it.
He wore evening dress, with a broad crimson sash over his shoulder and the Order of the Sun of Rioguay on his breast. His tobacco-stained fingers were glittering with diamond rings.
"Here is my nephew, Peter Corbold, Señor Diaz," announced Brian.
Both men bowed—Ramon Diaz with the grace and dignity of an hidalgo of Old Spain, Peter with as much display of cordiality as he could muster.
"S'pose he's a natural product of the country," thought Peter. "Dashed if I like the cut of his jib; but since he's my uncle's friend, I must take him at his own valuation—not mine."
"So you have arrived in Rioguay, young man," exclaimed Don Ramon Diaz, speaking in tolerable English.
"Yes, I blew in quite unexpectedly this evening," replied Peter, unconsciously using a general naval term.
"Blew in, ah!" exclaimed Don Ramon. "You are an aviator then?"
"No," corrected Peter. "I was a naval officer. 'Blew in' means 'dropped in'."
"Dropped in what?" inquired Diaz.
Peter went into explanations.
The Rioguayan listened intently, and, pulling a notebook from his pocket, made a note of the term Peter had used.
"I know most of the English slang words," he declared. "For seven years I lived in London. I do not like it. What is your opinion of Rioguay?"
"I haven't seen very much of it," said Peter. "It's rather too early for me to give an opinion."
Don Ramon smiled superciliously.
"Your nephew, Mr. Strong, is more discreet than the majority of your countrymen," he remarked. "I believe he is here to assist you in your work?"
"I hope so," replied Uncle Brian. "Up to the present, we have had little time to discuss matters."
For some moments there was an awkward pause. Apparently Don Ramon wanted to ask a question, but hesitated to do so. Peter, having taken a dislike to the man—although he refrained as much as possible from showing it—was quite in the dark as to who and what Don Ramon Diaz was, and whether his uncle regarded the Rioguayan merely as an acquaintance, or a person with whom he had business relations.
"Don Ramon is the Minister for Aviation in the Republic of Rioguay," explained Uncle Brian. "I suppose you didn't know that out here there is a well-organized commercial air-service?"
"I saw a flying-boat when we were entering San Antonio harbour," replied Peter.
"It interested you, then," remarked Don Ramon.
"Naturally," agreed young Corbold.
By degrees, Diaz steered the conversation into a channel that Peter wished particularly to avoid in present circumstances, and soon the latter found himself engaged in a controversy about the respective merits of the navies of the Great Powers.
Presently Peter heard the Rioguayan refer to the "German victory at Jutland".
"I beg your pardon, Don Ramon," he said quietly, "but did you say 'German victory'?"
"Was it not so?" asked Diaz, with his irritating leer.
"Rather not," declared Peter, with some heat.
He fully expected his uncle to support him, but Uncle Brian gave no sign.
"Listen: I tell you a fairy tale," began Diaz.
"You've told it already, Don Ramon."
"A fable, I mean," continued the Rioguayan. "A bull-dog and a fierce cat lived in a farmyard. They were very great friends. On the other side of the yard a hound-wolf—no, I mean a wolf-hound—lived in a stone kennel. The wolf-hound did not love the bull-dog and the cat. In fact, they quarrelled, but the wolf-hound was not strong enough to fight the bull-dog. One day, the cat walked in front of the wolf-dog's kennel, and the wolf-dog pounced on him. Oh yes, the cat fought strongly, but the wolf-dog bit him hard. Then the cat called for help to his friend the bull-dog. Up came the bull-dog and placed himself between the wolf-hound and his kennel, before the wolf-hound could break away from the cat. 'Now,' said the bull-dog, 'I've got you.' Then the wolfhound was frightened, because the bull-dog had got him in the open away from his kennel. But the bull-dog was in no hurry. He sat down to scratch himself. As he did that the wolf-hound slipped past the bull-dog and regained his kennel, having hurt the cat far more than he had hurt himself. Therefore the wolf-hound won. Do you see my point?"
Peter shook his head.
"You are very dense, young man," said Don Ramon reprovingly. "For the bull-dog substitute your Admiral Jellicoe, the cat represents Beatty, and the wolfhound von Scheer. Can you deny that the Germans won?"
"Certainly," replied Peter. "A victory is decided by its results. Did the Hun fleet come out again before the Armistice? Only once, and then it never meant to fight. It tried to lure Beatty into a nest of submarines. Failing in that, it promptly legged it back for all it was worth. At Jutland, Don Ramon, the German fleet was beaten and totally demoralized. Its surrender and internment at Scapa prove that."
Don Ramon threw out his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
"Mr. Strong," he said, turning to Uncle Brian, "I cannot convince this headstrong nephew of yours. But we will make good use of him, will we not? I must now wish you good-night, gentlemen."
Brian Strong escorted his visitor to the patio where his car was waiting.
"Insufferable sweep," soliloquized Peter, when he found himself alone. "Wonder what he was driving at when he said 'we will make good use of him'? He isn't jonnick, that's a dead cert. And hanged if I can fathom Uncle Brian's attitude towards him."
It was quite five minutes before Brian Strong rejoined his nephew. Peter fancied that his face looked drawn and haggard.
Without a word, Brian closed the big French windows and drew thick curtains over them and the door, which was rather remarkable, considering the night was hot and sultry. Then he switched on an electric fan, produced a tantalus and glasses and poured himself out a stiff peg of whisky.
"Peter, my boy," he said at length, "do you know what I'm doing here? Mining engineering? Not a bit of it. You said you saw a flying-boat to-day. That was built from my designs in its entirety. I am the chief constructor of the Rioguayan aviation service. But I've got myself into a very nasty mess, Peter. That's why I sent for you. I'm in the rottenest hole that a fellow could possibly find himself. I'm relying on your help, Peter. If you fail me——!"
CHAPTER V
The Menace
Peter Corbold regarded his uncle with feelings of amazement and pity. Up to the present, he had looked upon his relative as a man of means, and, although somewhat erratic in his methods, of action.
He had been under the impression that he had come out to Rioguay to get assistance from Uncle Brian. Now he found that Uncle Brian required his help. That put things on a totally different footing.
Naturally, he concluded, Uncle Brian's difficulties were not of a pecuniary nature, since he would not appeal to a nephew financially "on the rocks" for aid. Brian Strong was not that sort. The fact remained that he was, as he had confessed, in a hole and wanted to confide in his stalwart nephew.
"What's the trouble, Uncle?" he inquired. "Has anyone been threatening you out here? Are you in danger of your life?"
"I am," replied Brian Strong. "But that I consider a mere detail. It's not my life that counts, Peter; it's my work. I've made a terrible blunder—unconsciously, perhaps, but—well, I may as well commence at the beginning."
"Fire away," exclaimed Peter encouragingly.
"My story starts with my arrival in Rioguay," began Uncle Brian. "I'm lowering my voice purposely, Peter. Although no one in my employ speaks English—at least, I think so—there are other Rioguayans who do, and out here walls have longer ears than you and I are accustomed to. Well, I hadn't been more than a week in the place, when I discovered that Rioguay was a much more go-ahead republic than any I had previously seen during my wanderings in South America. There certainly seemed a jolly good opening in the mining-engineering line, and on making inquiries I found that I had to obtain a licence and register myself at the Department of the Minister of the Interior. That presented little difficulty. I gave all particulars of my career in accordance with the official requirements, paid the necessary fees, and came on to Tepecicoa.
"About a week later, I had a visit from a Don José Cordova, who introduced himself as the Minister of Transport. He was a long time beating about the bush. You'll find, Peter, that that is a characteristic of the Rioguayans. They'll use a hundred words to say what an Englishman would in half a dozen. He was courteous—very. He wanted me to take up an appointment under the Rioguayan Government, to design and supervise the construction of aircraft for commercial purposes. He mentioned the salary and stated that the estancia of El Toro would be provided as official quarters. Then, after a while, he asked whether I would embody the stabilizing device that I had offered to the British Air Ministry in the new type of machine."
"The one the Air Ministry turned down?" asked Peter.
"Yes, unfortunately," was the reply. "I tried to find out how Don José Cordova came to know about it, but he was as tight as an oyster over that. However, I considered the proposition. It was a tempting one. The British Government had had the chance of taking it up. Cordova took pains to point out to me that the Rioguayan Government would claim sole rights for the space of one year only. After that, I would be at liberty to sell the patent rights to anyone who cared to take the invention up. A week later, I accepted the appointment and signed the agreement. I took possession of El Toro, engaged my staff and a swarm of mechanics and labourers, and set to work. But it was not long before I made the discovery that I was virtually a prisoner and that my work was primarily intended as a menace to the country of my birth and to which I still belong.
"For the last two and a half years, there has been a growing anti-British feeling in Rioguay. The president, Jaime Samuda, is at the head of it, although I have been unable to find out the exact cause. Samuda is ambitious. There's no denying he's a strong man. The fact that there hasn't been a revolution in Rioguay since he was elected in 1917 proves that. At any rate, he's worked up a strong feeling against the British."
"So Mackenzie gave me to understand," observed Peter.
"Mackenzie!" exclaimed Uncle Brian. "Is Mackenzie back? I understood he'd cleared off for good. He was lucky enough to get out of the country. He won't have such an easy task next time. When and where did you meet him?"
Peter explained.
"He told me he was returning to Rioguay only to square up his affairs," he added.
"I hope he'll be able to carry out his programme," remarked Uncle Brian grimly. "It's easy enough to come into the country, but a jolly hard job to get away from it, if they don't want to let you. I can tell you this, Peter; there are a hundred chances to one against your leaving Rioguay for the next twelve months."
"Sounds interesting," rejoined his nephew coolly. "So interesting, that I might be tempted to try, just to see what happens. On the other hand, I rather fancy I'd like to hang on and see a bit more of this anti-British republic. After all's said and done, what's sentiment without action? All their anti-British feeling can't possibly do any harm to the British Empire. It's a case of a mouse trying conclusions with a lion. Well, what is the reason for this attitude?"
"I can't say. As you know, the Rioguayans sent a contingent to the Western Front in 1917."
"Yes, and the Boche made a point of capturing every section of trenches they held," added his nephew. "They couldn't put up a fight; they simply bolted, leaving either the French or the British to straighten out the line."
"That, I believe, is a fact," agreed Uncle Brian. "But, having taken part in the Great War as an ally, Rioguay wanted a share in the profits, so to speak. All she got was a couple of U-boats for breaking up, four destroyers, and a small light cruiser. She wanted far more, didn't get it, but got disgruntled instead. That may be the cause of the present agitation, but I'm not sure. What's more important is that the agitation has developed into a serious menace."
"How?"
"Consider the natural position of Rioguay. She has access to the sea, but a hostile fleet couldn't operate against her without violating the territorial waters of the Republics of San Valodar and San Benito. If any attempt were made to do so, those Republics would appeal to the United States for protection under the Monroe Doctrine. You know what that means. Rioguay has three or four modern battleships, and plenty of trained seamen under Russian and German naval officers. She has an understanding with two other South American republics that in the event of hostilities, she may take over their modern fleets en bloc. At San Antonio, at the present moment, there are building twenty or thirty light commerce-destroyers, under the guise of merchantmen."
"Saw 'em," corroborated Peter. "Thought they looked a bit fine in the hull design for merchant hookers. Well, fire away, Uncle."
"Undoubtedly Rioguay's waiting her time to have a slap at England," continued Uncle Brian. "What with the drastic reduction of the British navy and the ever-present difficulty over the Near Eastern question and, perhaps, trouble in India and Egypt, it looks as if that opportunity were imminent. Apparently, Rioguay's plan is to harry British commerce in the South Atlantic, use her fleet to tackle any flying squadron of British light cruisers, and to occupy certain of the West Indian Islands and Guiana. If the British navy put in an appearance in considerable force, they would certainly drive the Rioguayan fleet off the sea, but could they do anything against Rioguay itself? Then there is the Rioguayan air fleet to be taken into consideration. That's where you and I come in, Peter."
"By Jove! I'd like to have the chance," exclaimed Peter. "But if we are virtually prisoners, what can we do in the matter? Supposing you struck—refused point-blank to do another stroke, could the Rioguayans carry on building aircraft?"
"Unfortunately, yes," admitted Brian Strong. "As matters stand, they have a numerous fleet of fast flying-boats, capable of operating in a radius of two thousand miles. They can rise almost vertically in a twenty miles an hour breeze and hover without the aid of helicopters—never did think much of helicopters, Peter; that's power wrongly applied and consequently wasteful. With four engines, each of 850 horse-power, they are unsurpassed for speed by any other aircraft in existence. Their all-steel planes and armour-plated hull are practically invulnerable to shrapnel, and only a direct hit could put them out of action. And their means of offence is highly formidable: liquid-air torpedoes. They aren't my invention, thank heaven. Now, you ask, what can we do? I'll tell you. Do you remember that almost my first question to you on your arrival was, 'can you fly?' or words to that effect."
"And you also said, 'That's a pity, because I wanted to bring you down '," said Peter.
"You thought it a strange thing for me to say?"
"I thought it was a joke on your part, Uncle."
"It wasn't," declared Brian Strong. "I was in sober earnest. Having perfected the Rioguayan air fleet, I now want to undo the results of my handiwork. And I think I've solved the problem. I have constructed a secret anti-aircraft device. The Rioguayan mechanics think it is a searchlight apparatus, and I let them go on thinking. Now, I want to put it to a practical test. Since I can't fly and be on the ground at the same time, I had to look out for an assistant. Obviously, a Rioguayan pilot wouldn't do. To-morrow I'll show you the device, but what I want you to do is to learn to fly. It's simple and quite safe with my design. You'll pick it up in a couple of weeks. Then I want you to go up. I'll manipulate the ground apparatus and see if I can compel you to make a forced landing. There'll be little or no risk, as far as you are concerned. Are you game?"
CHAPTER VI
The Super Flying-boat
Peter Corbold was usually a sound sleeper with an easy conscience, but his first night ashore in Rioguay was a restless one. He had had a tiring day, followed by the disturbing influence of finding himself in utterly strange surroundings; while as a climax came Uncle Brian's lengthy and amazing disclosures.
His bedroom was in the east wing of the building—a spacious apartment, with stone walls and floor, the latter covered with native rush-mats. In one corner was a porcelain bath with shower attachment, in another a wardrobe, with the legs standing in shallow bowls filled with kerosene—a necessary precaution against the destructive insects of that region. The bed was of the folding cot variety, its legs also standing in oil-filled saucers, while in addition, it was fitted with a double mosquito curtain. The two windows were jalousied, while on the outside were iron bars that gave the spacious room a prison-like aspect.
There were electric bells, hot- and cold-water taps, and a ventilating fan, indicating that El Toro was not behind the times as far as the interior fittings went.
Peter lost no time in undressing and turning in. Having made sure that no rest-destroying mosquito lurked within the gauzy network, he switched out the light and closed his eyes.
But sleep he could not. He reviewed the conversation with his uncle. Several things required explanation. What prevented Uncle Brian, even if he remained in Rioguay, from communicating his discoveries to the British Government? Why hadn't the Foreign Office got to know of this seemingly obscure republic's preparations and the creation of a formidable navy and a still more formidable air-fleet? Then, again, what was Ramon Diaz's object in trying to ram down Peter's throat his version of Jutland? These and a score of other questions had for the present to remain unanswered.
Nor could he account for President Jaime Samuda's temerity in contemplating a trial of strength with the British Empire, unless the Rioguayans, taking the case of Ireland as a guide, had utterly underrated the mental and physical fibre of the British nation.
The dawn of another day found Peter opened-eyed and restless on his bed.
With the first blast of the syren summoning the employees of the El Toro works to their labours, Peter rose, completed his toilet, and strolled out of the house.
Somewhat to his surprise, he encountered his uncle looking brisk and spruce, as if the strain of the previous evening's conversation had had no effect upon him.
"Hello, Peter!" he exclaimed. "No need for you to turn out so early on your first morning here. Slept well?"
His nephew had to admit that he had not.
"You can make up for that during the heat of the day," rejoined Uncle Brian. "Here, we work from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m., knock off till four in the afternoon, and then carry on till six. It's a short working day compared with that at home, but I find that it's useless to expect to keep these fellows at high pressure for more than six hours a day. That they've jolly well got to do, or the Government would have something to say. Well, now you're up and about, we may as well make a tour of the works."
They made a tour of the rolling shop, the pressing shop, the foundry, and other departments. Although in every case the plant was up-to-date, there was nothing to cause Peter to show any surprise. He had seen similar machines at Dartmouth Engineering College and at the various Royal dockyards.
Presently they arrived at a large galvanized-iron building, enclosed by a massive wall of earth.
"This is part of the oil-fuel distillery," announced Uncle Brian. "Here we have stored about 50,000 gallons of kerosene, conveyed by pipe-line from the wells at Tajeco, about fifty miles from here. From this tank it passes into an apparatus in yonder building to have the flash-point raised to something like 200° F."
"Then what good is it?" asked Peter.
"Better than before for aeroplane engine work," replied his uncle. "All our motors are kerosene fired. We don't use petrol. And kerosene with a high flash-point is practically non-inflammable."
"And consequently non-explosive," added Peter.
"Precisely. That's where safety comes in. Roughly, eighty per cent of fatal accidents to flying men at one time were attributable to fire. This kerosene we are using is an explosive only when under high pressure. In the petrol tank it's safe; even in the carburetter it is non-explosive; but directly it enters the cylinders and is affected by the compression-stroke it is not only more volatile, but far more powerful than the best aviation spirit."
"But I take it that the fuel in the 'bus is under pressure," remarked Peter, who was beginning to take a lively interest. "It must be, in order to maintain an even feed to the motor."
"You're wrong there," replied his relative. "I'll explain that when I show you a flying-boat ready for service."
An inspection of the assembling sheds where aircraft were in various states of completion followed, Uncle Brian pointing out various "gadgets" embodied in the design to render the machine practically "fool-proof".
"Now, here's a flying-boat in an advanced stage," he said. "All that is required to complete her is painting and varnishing. That's done in another building. What do you think of this little fellow?"
The "little fellow" was actually one hundred and twenty feet in length, with a wing-span of a little over sixty feet. With the exception of the patent glass scuttles and screens it was constructed entirely of metal.
"There you are," continued the inventor. "A child could fly it once it has 'taken off'. The planes, you see, are on a horizontal axis, and automatically arranged so that should the diving angle become too acute they will adjust themselves and bring the 'bus into a position of safety. The horizontal rudders, too, can either be controlled by hand or set to act automatically. Thus a pilot can set a course and the machine will just carry on, even to the extent of allowing for 'drift' and unequal wind pressure. Get aboard, Peter; I want to show you the motors."
His nephew swung himself up by the open entry-port and found himself in the "cargo hold", or what would be in war-time the bombing compartment. From here a door through an armoured bulkhead led to the pilot's "office" immediately above the for'ard pair of engines.
"Now, Peter, here they are," announced Brian Strong. "See anything remarkable about these contraptions?"
"Sleeveless valves," replied Peter.
"Good. Anything else?"
"Why, if that's the full tank, it's right over the engine," exclaimed Peter. "And quite a small one at that."
"If you'll look, you'll find that there are three tanks to each engine," said his uncle, "and one larger one between each pair of motors. They are gravity tanks fitted with automatic valves, so that whatever position the boat assumes there's always one tank supplying fuel to each motor. Now you see the system of not having the kerosene under pressure until it enters the cylinders. Carburetter—usual type; ignition—magneto."
Brian Strong took hold of his nephew's arm, and in a lower voice continued:
"That's the heel of Achilles, my boy—the magneto. I've a little gadget I'm perfecting that will knock all existing anti-aircraft devices silly. It will make these flying-boats as harmless as a non-bacteric fly—as a bee without its sting. There'll be no aerial menace, Peter. The blighters who declare that the big battleship is a back number will be utterly confounded. And as for Rioguay——!"
He broke off to give a cheerful chuckle.
"Let's get back and have breakfast," he said.
CHAPTER VII
Peter's First Ascent
"There is no knowing what tricks these Rioguayans will be up to," observed Uncle Brian, as they gained the open expanse between the workshops and the house. "For instance, I should not be at all surprised if I knew there was a secret dictaphone concealed in each of my private rooms. They are undoubtedly bluffing me—or at least they think they are—and I'm bluffing them in return. So I just carry on, do the work I contracted to do in a thorough and conscientious manner. What I do beyond that is my affair."
"I was thinking, Uncle——"
"Thinking what?"
"Can't you send in a report about what is going on here to the British Government?"
"How?"
"By letter, or cablegram in code?"
"Not an atom of use, Peter. That letter I wrote asking you to join me here was opened by the Rioguayan Government officials. Every scrap of paper that leaves here through the post is carefully examined. They wouldn't accept a code message. It would only serve to increase their suspicions, and that I want to avoid as much as possible. You and I, Peter, are marked men. If, for instance, you went into Tepecicoa, you'd be shadowed from the moment you left till the time you returned."
"You said I was to take up flying," persisted his nephew. "What's to prevent me taking you up and making a dash for the West Indies or the Southern States?"
"In the first place," objected Uncle Brian, "you won't be allowed up alone. There will be always six or eight of the crew. They won't prevent us from carrying out our proposed experiments, but they'd very soon stick a knife between your ribs if you attempted to fly across the frontier. In the second place, if you attempted to start at night without a crew there's always a strong guard posted over the hangars. No doubt we'll find a way out when the time comes, but until then keep your eyes open and don't look too wise!"
"There's another point, Uncle."
"And that is——?"
"That greaser Ramon Diaz: what was his object in trying to prove that Jutland was a Hun victory?"
"I think simply because he wanted to see how you'd take it. Out here they think it is a great stunt to be able to rile an Englishman. According to their ideas Great Britain is fast crumbling. They'll never make a bigger mistake. Perhaps some of the newspapers are responsible for that. The Rioguayans cannot understand our form of government. To them it is an absurdity to appoint a Prime Minister and then begin to howl him down. Out here there is no Opposition, or if there is, it does not advertise. People in Rioguay who ostentatiously differ from the President and the Senate are forcibly and finally removed."
"Well, Uncle, I thought Diaz was a pal of yours, and naturally I didn't want to start scrapping with him in your house, but I should have liked to give him a straight left."
"It's as well you didn't," remarked Brian Strong drily, "although I quite sympathize with you in your desire to alter the features of Ramon's figurehead. Keeping your temper under control puzzles these Rioguayans far more than if you had hit out. You'll have plenty of provocation, Peter, especially later on when they think I've guessed the secret of the flying-boat's true colours. Our policy just at present is to carry on, eat humble-pie if needs be, and to prepare a line of retreat as soon as my anti-aircraft device is tested and perfected."
Breakfast over, Brian suggested to his nephew that he should take a stroll round the flying ground until siesta.
"I'll have to be fairly busy," he added. "But this evening we'll have a 'private view' of this little invention of mine."
Accordingly, Peter made his way to the "taking-off ground", which consisted of a sloping floor of wood, bordered on one side by a belt of sand and on the other by a track of earth covered with coarse grass—the three differently constructed in order to give the pilots experience in rising from various kinds of ground. At the end of the expansive slipway was a lake nearly a mile in length, artificially constructed in order to give the flying-boats practice in taking off from and alighting on water before being dispatched to their tidal river base at San Antonio.
There were at least half a dozen craft undergoing flying tests, or else being employed as instruction machines for budding aviators. The pilots were young men, alert and keen on their work. Peter had to admit that. There was little or nothing of the supposed South American languor about them.
Peter Corbold's arrival on the flying ground had attracted a certain amount of attention, the airmen looking at him curiously and passing remarks that, owing to his ignorance of the language, left him quite "at sea". Every Rioguayan on the works and on the estate of El Toro seemed to know who he was.
For some while he stood watching the huge amphibians "take off". This they did after only a very short run down the inclined plane, rising steeply in the air with very little effort. The training at El Toro was confined to rising and alighting both on land and water, and being able to fly a straight course. Fancy flights and stunts were left severely alone until the flying-boats left for their war-base.
Presently, one of the pilots standing by came up and made signs to Peter that he might go as a passenger. Although he had come out without any intention of "going up", Peter accepted the offer with alacrity.
"The blighter would think I had cold feet if I refused," he soliloquized, as he followed the pilot into the interior of the flying-boat, where he found five other Rioguayans already there—lads undergoing instruction. The two mechanics—one for each pair of motors—were not visible, their "stations" being in the alleyway between the engines and below the space ostensibly to be used for the storage of merchandise.
It was Peter's first time of "going up", and he had to confess that he did not find the experience very exhilarating. The enclosed fuselage practically eliminated all sensation of speed, and once the initial movement was over—somewhat like the starting of a lift—there was little beyond the noise of the motors to convey the suggestion of speed.
Going to one of the side scuttles, Peter looked earthwards. By this time the flying-boat had attained an altitude of between 2500 and 3000 feet. At that height the land looked flat and uninteresting as it apparently moved slowly below the ninety miles an hour aircraft. It was only by observing the shadow of the flying-boat upon the sun-dried plain that Peter could realize that he was being carried through the air at a rate that he had never previously attained.
Looking through the glass door between the main saloon and the pilot's office, Peter saw that the man had abandoned the joy-stick and was leaning back in his seat and rolling a cigarette.
"He's bored stiff," was the young Englishman's unspoken remark.
The pilots under instruction had also lost interest, but owing to a very different reason. It was their first flight, and already every one of them was in the throes of air-sickness.
It was evidently the intention of their instructor to prolong their agony, for the flying-boat was still climbing steadily and heading for the Sierra Colima, a range of jagged mountains forming the north-eastern frontier of the republic.
Here, there is to be found a perpetual turmoil of air currents, the torrid atmosphere of the plains rising on either side of the mountains and engaging in conflict with the cold blasts of air in the higher regions. Not only were there fierce, eddying winds to be met with, but highly dangerous air-pockets—veritable pitfalls taxing to the uttermost the resources of the pilot.
For a good twenty minutes the flying-boat tore madly over the tops of the jagged peaks. Lurching, side-slipping, flung almost vertically through a distance of two hundred feet, twisted like a withered leaf in an autumn gale, the machine provided a series of thrills to the now far from bored Peter. Gripping a metal rod, he divided his attention between the view below, the cool daring of the pilot, and his own efforts to prevent himself being hurled violently against the sides of the fuselage.
"That chap is some airman, although he's a Dago," declared Peter. "Those other fellows look like having a very rough time of it."
They were. The five were lying utterly helpless upon the floor, sliding in a confused mass every time the machine gave a violent lurch.
Greatly to his surprise, Peter felt no sign of air-sickness. Why he was immune he knew not. It was possibly owing to the fact that he was a sailor, but he remembered instances of his late brother officers going up for joy-rides and quickly falling victims to air-sickness.
"If I could manage this 'bus," he soliloquized, "and I wanted to clear out of the country, who's there to prevent me? Deal effectively with the pilot and the trick's done. But there's no hurry; there'll be plenty of excitement down there before the time comes to do a bunk with Uncle Brian."
Half an hour later, the flying-boat swooped down towards the landing ground. This was a far more exciting bit of work than the comparatively tame ascent.
The ground appeared to leap upwards to meet the descending machine. Peter held his breath, fully expecting a terrific bump. The thought flashed through his mind that perhaps the pilot had lost control.
Peter watched the custodian of his fate. The pilot was sitting well back in his seat, his right hand grasping the lever controlling the planes. With a slow deliberate movement, he pulled the lever towards him. The flying-boat's speed was instantly checked. Her fore-and-aft axis came to a horizontal position. Then the bows appeared to rise ever so slightly, while at the same moment the four propellers ceased revolving.
There was a bump, but it was far less violent than Peter had expected. Another and yet another of less magnitude and the flying-boat was at rest once more on terra firma.
The pilot scrambled out, followed by the two mechanics. Peter dropped lightly to earth, with a sensation of elation at having successfully passed through the ordeal of his first flight.
He was half-way to the house when he glanced back to see the first of the five miserable looking "quirks" crawling painfully out of the fuselage.
"So you've been up," observed Uncle Brian. "How did you like it?"
"Not so dusty," replied Peter. "Those poor blighters under instruction didn't seem to revel in it, though."
"They wouldn't," rejoined Uncle Brian. "That flying-boat is of an old type, and is used only for instructional purposes. She's known to the instructors here as El Boyeta—the Emetic. So you weren't ill? Capital; you'll make a good airman, I can see."
"And the sooner the better," added his nephew.
CHAPTER VIII
Uncle Brian's Secret
Brian Strong did not carry out his promise to show Peter his anti-aircraft invention that evening. Nor did he for several days. Circumstances prevented it. There was a steady stream of callers—Rioguayan officials to discuss matters concerning the development of the Mercantile Air Service. They were delightfully polite, because they had not the slightest suspicion that Brian Strong knew they were trying to bluff him, and the Englishman was equally cautious to convey the impression that he was working merely for the industrial good of the republic.
All things considered, Peter was enjoying himself. He entered whole-heartedly into his part of the contract: to aid his relative to the utmost to circumvent the Rioguayan authorities in the scheme to twist the British lion's tail. In his spare time he devoted himself to learning the language of the country, his instructor being a Rioguayan employee who had lived in New York for nearly twenty years. Much of his time was spent in the engineering shops, while opportunities were given him to take practical instruction in managing the controls of a planeless flying-boat, in which all would-be pilots had to qualify before entering into the actual conditions of flight.
Thus a week went by and still the building that held Uncle Brian's secret device remained a sealed book to him. In fact, Brian Strong was so busy with work that demanded the almost constant presence of Don Ramon Diaz and his colleagues, that he himself had to steer clear of the experimental room.
"And how progresses the new type of searchlight, Señor Strong?" inquired Don Ramon. "I should like to see what you are doing in that direction."
"It is not progressing to the extent I should like," was the reply. "In fact, there are one or two important details that have completely baffled me. Of course, if you would like to see how far I've got with the design——"
"No, no," said Don Ramon. "It is not really necessary. When you have overcome the difficulties, then it will be a different matter."
"Quite so," agreed Uncle Brian with well-feigned disinterestedness. "After all, there's nothing much to be seen. If and when the apparatus is perfected—when I've tested it thoroughly and am satisfied that it fulfils all that is required of it—then, no doubt, you will be willing to negotiate for the exclusive rights say for one year."
This conversation had the desired result. It put Don Ramon off the scent. He was not keenly interested in an improved searchlight. Those the republic already possessed were of a particularly powerful type and sufficient for defence purposes. He begrudged the time the Englishman spent in the work, but, he reasoned, a refusal on the part of the Rioguayan authorities to allow Brian Strong to experiment in that line might probably result in the foreigner "cutting up rough" and refusing to proceed with his aerial work. That, for the present, would never do. Until the El Toro works could be run independently—without the aid and supervision of Brian Strong—it was policy to humour the unsuspecting Englishman.
One evening at dinner, Uncle Brian suddenly inquired of his nephew:
"Are you under any obligation to the Admiralty, Peter? Have they any call upon you?"
"I signed a paper stating my willingness to serve in the event of hostilities," replied Peter. "I fancy we all did—those who were pushed out under the so-called economy stunt."
"Humph!" ejaculated Uncle Brian. "It seems to me that signing the document is unnecessary. If it came to a scrap, or even the suggestion of a scrap, you young fellows would clamour to be in it—and the older men too. I remember after the Boer War there were hundreds of men 'fed up' with their treatment at the hands of the War Office. They had good cause for complaint, too. 'Wait till the next war,' they said, 'and we'll take precious good care to be out of it.' But did they? The majority were amongst the first to volunteer. That's the Briton all over. He'll grouse, but if danger threatens from without, he'll be there! And the greater the danger the greater the enthusiasm to meet it.... Peter, my boy, you'll be more useful to your country out here than at home—or even in the navy. Come along; let's take a stroll as far as my experimental shed."
Nothing loth, Peter fell in with the suggestion. He was curious to know the secret that the experimental shed held. His uncle had hinted at something very mysterious, but beyond that he was dumb.
It was moonlight. Away down the valley came sounds of revelry from the employees' quarters—men singing to the accompaniment of guitars. The works and aviation sheds appeared deserted, but Peter knew by this time that each place was strictly guarded. And during the walk he fancied he heard movements behind the cacti that bordered the road.
Brian Strong's private experimental shed stood well apart from the rest of the works. It was by no means a large or a pretentious building, measuring forty feet by twenty and constructed of corrugated iron.
Although Uncle Brian was perfectly aware that the Rioguayan authorities could inspect the building at any time, his careless assurances, coupled with the warning that any interference might destroy the fruit of months of research, had resulted in a state of immunity. He was allowed to carry on undisturbed.
But on the other hand, he guarded himself against a possible visit from his State employers. There were drawings in the office, but they referred to commonplace machinery and appliances. Of his invention, his magnum opus, no plans were in existence, save those that lived in his brain. He took extreme caution lest the future enemies of his country should score on that point.
Producing a bunch of keys, Uncle Brian unlocked the comparatively frail door and switched on a light. Peter was about to cross the threshold when his uncle stopped him.
"Half a minute," exclaimed Uncle Brian. "Wait till I've put little Timothy to bed."
His nephew looked in astonishment. Right in the middle of the concrete floor was a coiled-up snake. Hearing footsteps, the reptile raised its head, revealing a pair of deep-set eyes that glittered in the artificial light.
Without hesitation, Uncle Brian grasped the snake at a point about four inches behind the head. The reptile immediately coiled itself round his arm.
"Timothy is quite harmless," explained Uncle Brian. "I got him from an old Indian up-country. I need hardly say the poison sac has been removed. He makes an excellent guard."
"So I should imagine," remarked Peter. "Dashed if I could handle the brute, poisonous or otherwise."
The snake was placed in a box. Uncle Brian poured out some milk from a bottle, placed the saucer beside the reptile, and closed the lid.
"Now we can get to work," he said briskly.
Peter glanced around him. There was little or nothing to suggest anything mysterious about the place. On one side of the building was a long bench, absolutely littered with tools, scraps of metal, old bottles, and other debris, together with a lathe and an engineer's vice. Underneath the bench was a similar assortment of rubbish.
"Bit of a lash up, eh?" commented Uncle Brian. "'Fraid I am a bit untidy, but I can generally clear a space when I want to get to work. Bear a hand and shift some of this stuff."
He pointed to a confused heap at one end of the bench. When the pile of stuff was removed there stood revealed a small contraption that looked as if it were a box camera with an acetylene motor-lamp attached.
"There's my patent searchlight," he announced, with boyish enthusiasm. "Don Ramon Diaz and all his precious pals can fool about with that to their hearts' content. They won't be a penny the wiser. Look at it. See if you can make anything of it."
Peter did as he was requested.
"Can't make head or tail of it, Uncle," he confessed frankly.
Uncle Brian proceeded to connect up a couple of terminals with a wall switch.
"Now then," he resumed, "out with the light." The next instant the place was in total darkness, the painted glass windows effectually shutting out the brilliant moonlight.
There was a slight click. Peter, looking in the direction where he imagined the apparatus was, could discern nothing, but on the opposite wall was a small circular patch of greenish-hued light.
"Seen anything like that before?" inquired his Uncle.
"Rather," replied Peter. "Anti-aircraft searchlights during the war. Couldn't see the beam in its passage through air; when it hit a solid substance it lit it up."
"This is somewhat similar, but very different," said Uncle Brian. "Sounds a rummy thing to say, but there you are. I'll demonstrate. On with the light, Peter."
Again the room was flooded with electric light. Uncle Brian pointed to a four-cylindered motor standing in one corner.
"Get to work on that," he continued. "Turn the engine over as fast as you can and see that the plugs are firing. They are already loose in the cylinders. You may as well remove the magneto dust-cap while you are about it."
Peter did as requested, placing the plugs on the tops of the cylinders, so that he could observe the sparks jumping the gaps between the points and the central rods. There was no mistaking the efficient state of that magneto. It was giving a miniature Brocks' firework display.
"Now!" exclaimed Uncle Brian.
His nephew continued to turn the geared starting-handle for another dozen revolutions.
Then he stood up and wiped the perspiration from his face.
"By Jove!" he almost shouted. "It's it—absolutely it!"