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CLIPPED WINGS

[Illustration: MAKING UP THE RIVER Page 93]

CLIPPED WINGS

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Contents

CLIPPED WINGS

CHAPTER I

Paid Off

H.M.S. Baffin, light cruiser, of 9900 tons displacement, 30 knots speed, and armed with seven 7.5-inch and twelve 3-inch guns, was approaching Portsmouth. Already the Nab Tower bore broad on her port beam. Ahead lay the low-lying Portsea Island, upon which Portsmouth is built, backed by the grassy Portsdown Hills with their white chalk-pits standing out clearly in the rays of the midday sun.

The Baffin was a typical unit of the post-War fleet—long, lean, with two funnels of unequal size; a tripod mast with a decidedly ugly raking topmast, and an aftermast that, by reason of its position, should be termed a mainmast, but, on account of its stumpiness, could not reasonably be expected to be so termed. As if to make amends for its insignificance, the after-mast flew a white pennant, streaming yards and yards astern and terminating in a gilded bladder that bobbed and curtsied in the frothy wake of the swiftly-moving vessel.

That streamer—the paying-off pennant—indicated the cruiser's immediate programme. She was on the eve of completing her two years' commission.

To the lower-deck ratings that pennant meant home, and with it long "leaf" and freedom from strict discipline, watch on and watch off, divisions, subdivisions, "tricks", and other items of routine that combine to make up Jack's working day and night afloat.

The town-bred bluejacket or stoker would probably make for his old haunts and, with a seaman's typical philosophy, note the fact that many of his former acquaintances were vainly looking for work. Then, at the expiration of his "leaf", he would shoulder his bundle and return to the depot, thankful that he would have to take no thought for the morrow as to how he was to obtain his next meal.

Then, too, the seaman recruited from the country would make tracks for his native village, there to spend the next few weeks contemplating the dull-witted son of the soil—his companion of boyhood days—plodding at the tail-end of a plough. Quite possibly the labourer was being paid far more than he—the highly-trained product of a mechanical age in which electricity and oil-fed turbine engines have supplanted masts and yards. But, on the other hand, the bluejacket will thank his lucky stars that fate—usually in the guise of a naval recruiting officer—drew him from the unimaginative land and set his course upon the boundless ocean. At all events his outlook on life was not bordered by the hedges that surrounded the fields which the boon companions of his youth tilled from one year's end to another.

To the officers, "paying off" presented a somewhat different aspect. Working, eating, drinking, and playing together for the space of two years, inevitably thrown into each other's society owing to the limits of the ward- and gun-rooms, they cannot but form deep attachments for each other. Only those men who have served a commission afloat can thoroughly realize the meaning of the term "band of brothers".

And now, with the paying off of the ship, they would be scattered. True, they were going home, but the fact remained that some would "go on the beach" for the last time. Officers still in their prime would have to be compulsorily retired to rot ashore, because a conference in America has agreed that there is no longer any necessity for Britannia to rule the waves. For similar reasons junior officers, on the threshold of what had promised to be a long and honourable career, were being politely invited to resign their commissions, the invitation being backed by a hint that if they did not they would be ultimately "fired" as being surplus to the revised establishment.

Amongst the latter was Acting Sub-lieutenant Peter Corbold, a tall, broad-shouldered youth of nineteen or twenty. The only son of a country clergyman, Peter had been maintained at Dartmouth at a sacrifice that had played havoc with his father's meagre stipend; but, by dint of the strictest economy, the latter had seen his son through the earlier stages of his naval career, until Peter was in a measure self-supporting.

Studious by nature and conscientious in carrying out his duties, Peter Corbold not only passed the successive examinations required by the Admiralty during his midshipman days, but gained high praise in his captain's reports. In due course, he obtained acting rank of sub-lieutenant and was expecting to be confirmed as such when there came a bombshell in the form of an official memorandum on the reduction of personnel.

It was not a pleasing prospect. Its nearness became painfully apparent as the Baffin approached her home port. In other circumstances, Peter might have looked ahead and fancied himself in command of a destroyer, a light cruiser, or even a battleship, gliding between those chequered circular forts that rise like gigantic inverted buckets from the floor of the anchorage of Spithead. Now that dream was shattered. There remained but the prospect of "the beach", with a meagre gratuity as a sorry solace for his compulsory abandonment of a naval career.

A deeply-laden Thames barge, beating up on a weather-going tide against a stiff sou'westerly breeze, attracted his attention. Sailing-craft of all sorts and sizes had a fascination for him, and this bluff-browed craft, with her dull-red sprit-mainsail and topsail straining in the wind, made a striking picture as the foam-flecked waves swept completely over her battened-down hatches. The only visible member of her crew was a tubby, blue-jerseyed man, wearing a billycock hat, who stood with legs planted firmly apart at the wheel, happy in the knowledge that the "brass-bound blighters" on the cruiser would have to alter helm—not he.

"Hello, old son!" exclaimed a voice, as a hand descended heavily on Peter's shoulder. "How would that job suit?... Hang it all, man; sorry, I didn't mean that. I forgot."

The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish, a high-spirited youth, who answered readily enough to such affectionate names as "Weeds", "Tawny", "Straight-cut", "Woodbine", or any other term that bore any resemblance to the various brands of tobacco.

Cavendish was nearly twelve months senior to Peter Corbold. In height he was a full two inches shorter, and lacked the breadth of shoulder and massive limbs of his chum. Peter's features were dark, and might be described as ruffled; Cavendish's were fair and rounded. Peter was essentially a thinker; the other was a man of action, with an impulsive temperament. In short, they had little or nothing in common, as far as build, appearance, and characteristics went, but they were close chums.

"Nothing to apologize for, old son," rejoined Peter. "There's no such luck for me—even to the extent of becoming the master of a barge. There's nothin' doin' afloat for a has-been naval bloke nowadays. There are far too many Mercantile Marine fellows on the beach looking for jobs as it is."

"That's a fact," admitted his chum soberly.

Cavendish was one of the lucky ones, although, with his characteristic honesty, he could form no idea why his name should have been "ear-marked" for retention in the Service. He had not shone in his exams. More than once he had got into scrapes, harmless enough, during his career at Dartmouth. Perhaps it was the fearless, almost foolhardy feat he had performed in mid-Atlantic, when he took the Baffin's second cutter alongside a burning tanker—a German—and rescued seven survivors from a raging inferno, that had been a deciding factor in his retention.

Probably he alone of all the officers knew the precarious state of Peter Corbold's finances and the gloomy outlook that confronted him. So much he gathered by "putting two and two together". Peter was not a fellow to moan and whine, but was inclined to reticence on the matter.

"What are you going to do, old thing?" he demanded abruptly.

"Haven't any plans," replied Peter. "At least, nothing definite to work upon. Probably I'll go abroad."

"Canada or Australia?"

Corbold shook his head.

"No; I've been thinking of going to Rioguay," he replied. "I've an uncle out there. Mining engineer—nitrates, I believe, but I'm not sure."

"Rioguay? Where's that?" inquired Cavendish. "Somewhere in South America, isn't it?"

"Quite a flourishing little republic," declared Peter. "It has been going steadily ahead ever since that little scrap with Brazil. People are mostly of Spanish and Indian descent, of course, but there's a fair sprinkling of pure Europeans, I've been told."

The shrill notes of a bugle interrupted Corbold's words. Instantly, every officer and man upon the Baffin's deck stiffened to attention, the white-helmeted marine detachment drawn up aft presenting arms with the regularity and precision of a well-oiled machine.

The light cruiser had entered Portsmouth Harbour and was now abreast the blackened ruins of what was once the semaphore tower. Ahead and on the starboard bow appeared three tapering masts above a block of yellow-bricked offices. At the mizzen-truck fluttered a white flag with a St. George's Cross. Quickly the rest of the vessel came into view—a comparatively small black-hulled ship with triple bands of white—lying, not riding to the tide, but in a dry dock, in which she is fated to remain as long as her planks and timbers hold together.

A few seconds later and again the bugle blares out—this time to "carry on". The Baffin, as does every vessel belonging to His Majesty's navy that passes that way, has paid her homage to the renowned Victory. Past the huge building slip—from which, until the Washington Conference left it untenanted and derelict, a ceaseless procession of noble battleships sped to make their first acquaintance with the ocean—the Baffin glided. Then, under port helm, she turned her lean bows towards the gigantic lock through which she must pass to gain her allotted berth. Ahead were warships of every size and condition; battle-scarred capital ships that had borne the brunt of Jutland, gigantic seaplane-carriers, battle cruisers, light cruisers, P-boats, destroyers, and submarines—forlorn, neglected, and condemned to the scrap-heap. No longer did the once-busy dockyard resound to the ceaseless rattle of pneumatic hammers as the "maties" toiled to contribute their not inconsiderable share to the supremacy of the Empire.

"You mark my words, old son," exclaimed Cavendish, "some day we'll be sorry we've scrapped these ships. We'll want them pretty badly. People talk of air power being the predominant factor, and that the battleship is a back number! It's sea power that counts, has counted from the beginning of history, and will do so till the end."

CHAPTER II

A Day of Surprises

Three months later, Peter Corbold saw Rioguayan territory for the first time. Acting upon a laconic cablegram from his uncle, Brian Strong, he had taken a passage in a Royal Mail steamer as far as Barbadoes, transferring at that point to one of the fleet of small vessels plying between the West Indies and the numerous ports on the Rio Guaya.

After a voyage lasting nearly a week, the steamer entered the wide estuary of the Rio Guaya, which, for more than a hundred miles, averages forty miles in width, and is tidal for a distance of nearly four hundred and fifty miles. On the right bank is the Republic of San Valodar; on the left that of San Benito. Rioguayan territory does not begin until Sambrombon Island, where the river is divided into two deep-water channels barely five miles in width.

Sambrombon Island made the position of the Republic of Rioguay unique. It was in the territory of San Valodar, consequently San Valodar claimed control of the Corda Channel on the north-east side, and one-half of El Porto Channel on the south-west side, sharing the jurisdiction of that waterway with the Republic of San Benito. Thus, whatever shipping Rioguay possessed could not pass to the open sea without entering the territorial waters of either San Benito or San Valodar; but, by mutual arrangement among the three republics, Rioguayan ships were allowed the right of using El Porto Channel, without payment of dues.

This much Peter learnt from a fellow-countryman, the only British subject on the ship, and Mackenzie by name.

"The Rioguayans are frightfully proud of this concession," continued Mackenzie. "They are top-dog out here and pretty go-ahead, I can assure you. Too go-ahead for my liking."

"How's that?" asked Peter.

His companion smiled enigmatically.

"You'll find out quick enough," he replied. "The country used to be all right, but of recent years there's been a growing anti-British feeling. Why, I don't know, but the fact remains. So much so, that I'm selling out. I've taken up a piece of land at Barbuda, and I'm returning to Rioguay only to arrange for the disposal of a small mine that I've been working here. Where are you bound for?"

"El Toro; that's about five miles from Tepecicoa," announced Peter. "An uncle of mine is an engineer there."

"Not Strong—Brian Strong—by any chance?"

"Yes," replied Peter. "Do you know him?"

"Do you?" asked Mackenzie.

"I was only five or six when I last saw him," said Peter.

"You'll find him a weird old bird, chock-a-block with comic notions and strange gadgets," declared Mackenzie, with a burst of British candour. "Not a bad sort, though," he added.

Just then Peter heard the distinctive drone of an aeroplane engine. It was some time before even his trained eye could detect the on-coming machine, but presently he could see the misty outlines of a huge flying-boat travelling at high speed at a great altitude. Even as he looked, the flying-boat shut off her engine and dived at such a steep angle that it appeared to be out of control.

At less than two hundred feet above the water the headlong plunge was arrested. The flying-boat seemed to hang irresolute, her momentum neutralized by the action of gravity.

She was a craft of nearly a hundred feet in length, propelled by four powerful engines. For her length, her wing-span was ridiculously small, the planes, three en échelon on either side, being short and with a decided horizontal camber. The absence of struts and tension wires gave Corbold the impression that the planes were of steel.

This much he took in before the flying-boat restarted her motors and was quickly lost to sight in the dazzling sunlight.

"Those chaps are pretty smart," commented Mackenzie. "It's only since 1918 that they took up flying seriously, and for Dagoes they've done wonders. But I wouldn't say too much about it to any Rioguayan, if I were you; it isn't exactly healthy. There's San Antonio just showing up. It's the port nearest to the Atlantic that Rioguay possesses, and like a good many South American towns, it is going ahead like steam. Keep your eyes open and don't say too much, or we may both find ourselves in gaol."

Viewed from the broad estuary, San Antonio looked like a huge marble town, standing out against the lofty, tree-clad hills that enclosed it on three sides. But it was not the appearance of the place that attracted Peter's attention so much as the shipping.

To his surprise, he saw three large battleships lying at moorings off the town—leviathans that, in spite of the Rioguay ensign, looked unmistakably British.

"Ay, two of them hailed from the Clyde and the third from Barrow," declared Mackenzie. "They were originally built for the Brazilian and Chilian Governments, but for some reason those republics agreed to sell them to Rioguay. I expect they had been studying the 'Is the Capital Ship Doomed?' controversy and come to the conclusion that they'd best sell while they had the chance."

"But what good are they to Rioguay?" asked Peter.

"Ask me another, my boy," rejoined his companion. "They gave out that they were for maintaining friendly relations with the Republics of San Benito and San Valodar; or, in other words, those battleships are guarantees for a free passage between Rioguay and the open sea. They're building others like them over there. A couple of thousand skilled Japanese artisans were brought over eighteen months ago. I did hear that they can turn out a fully equipped battleship for three million dollars.... There's the submarine base."

Peter looked in the direction indicated. All he could detect was a solitary submarine, bearing a strong resemblance to the late unlamented Unterseebooten that played such an important part in the downfall of the German Empire.

"There are others," continued his mentor. "About twenty, I believe; but where their base is actually, I don't know. It's somewhere about here, but where exactly I've never been able to find out."

Slowing down, the little steamer entered one of the creeks comprising San Antonio harbour. It was not the largest, but its shores were occupied by at least half a dozen building slips on which were craft in all stages of construction.

"For passenger and cargo traffic between Rioguay and the West Indies and Brazil," explained Mackenzie. "A sort of national enterprise. The capital was issued in five-dollar shares, giving each holder the chance of winning a big prize. That sort of thing, anything of the nature of a lottery, appeals to the Rioguayans. The required capital was over-subscribed in less than a week."

As soon as the steamer berthed alongside the wharf, Mackenzie bade Peter "au revoir" and went ashore together with half a dozen other passengers, mostly Brazilians.

Five hours later Peter Corbold set foot on Rioguayan soil at the busy little port of Tepecicoa, being in the awkward position of knowing no word of Spanish and having no one to act as an interpreter.

But that troubled him very little. His previous experience of foreign ports stood him in good stead; while having previously provided himself with a large-scale map of the district on which El Toro, his uncle's abode, was plainly marked, he had no great difficulty in finding himself upon the right road. He travelled light, his baggage having been detained at the Custom House for examination.

Peter had cabled out to his uncle from England, stating that he was sailing in the Royal Mail steamer Tagus, but the date of his arrival at El Toro was a matter for speculation. Nor was the ex-naval officer aware that there was direct telephonic communication between Tepecicoa and his destination, and that electric cars passed within two hundred yards of the place.

It was undoubtedly a day of surprises. Peter had expected to find a tenth-rate South American republic, peopled, for the most part, by swarthy ruffians, with long knives conspicuously carried in bright-coloured sashes. He had imagined the town of Tepecicoa to be dirty, squalid, swarming with beggars. Instead, he found broad, tree-planted streets and spacious plazas, lighted by electricity and provided with broad, shady, and remarkably clean pavements. There were Indians and half-castes in profusion, looking certainly far from being poverty-stricken. In fact, he did not see a single beggar. There were plenty of people on horseback, and quite a number of motor-cars that obviously had been imported from the United States.

Being afoot and dressed in clothes of English cut, Peter was the object of a great deal of attention, especially as he was walking. Almost everyone, even the poorest, rode either in a car or carriage, or on horseback.

Presently, Peter arrived at a long and open space, out of which seven broad thoroughfares radiated. Here he stood irresolute, unable to decide as to which of these roads he should take.

"Wish I had Mackenzie with me," he soliloquized.

Suddenly a hand slapped him heavily upon the shoulder. Surprised, Peter wheeled, to find a tall, lean-faced man, whose gold-filled teeth proclaimed him to be a citizen of the United States.

"Say, stranger," exclaimed the man, "you'se the guy Boss Strong's expectin'?"

"I am," admitted Peter.

"Sure thing," continued the other. "I'm right dead on it every time. What are you hoofing it for? Didn't Old Man Strong send along his automobile?"

"He didn't know when to expect me," replied Peter. "I suppose I ought to have telegraphed."

"There's a cable-car at twenty centavos or an automobile at a dollar," announced the man.

Peter expressed his preference for the latter.

"Come along right now, and I'll get you up," said his benefactor, and grasping Peter by the arm, he led him to a kiosk-like structure similar to those he had noticed at almost every street corner.

The rest was a simple matter. Young Corbold's companion said something in Spanish to the polite uniformed person in charge of the Kiosk. Peter put down a dollar and was given a ticket, which he was informed he was to place in his hatband. An electrically-operated syren on the roof of the Kiosk gave a clear but not aggressive note, and almost before Peter could be escorted to the edge of the pavement, a motor-car had arrived and was awaiting him.

The mulatto driver gave a glance at the words on the ticket in Peter's hat. That was all that was necessary. That piece of pasteboard was an order given by the Republic of Rioguay that, in consideration of the sum of one dollar having been paid, the driver of the state-licensed vehicle was to take his fare to El Toro by the shortest possible route.

Without that ticket, Peter might have sought and sought in vain for a conveyance.

He had expected, somewhat naturally, that his Yankee benefactor was going to El Toro with him. But he was mistaken. The man raised his hat and disappeared.

"Might have asked him his name, any old way," thought Peter. "P'r'aps Uncle Brian will know who he is. My word! Rioguay is quite a go-ahead show!"

It did not take the motor long to get clear of the town. Soon the tree-lined streets gave place to a broad, dusty road that ran almost in a straight line for miles between fields of maize and open expanses of sun-baked grass, dotted here and there with adobe huts. Nearer and nearer drew the rugged, saw-like mountains, until Peter began to wonder whether El Toro lay on the far side of the formidable sierras.

But at length the car turned abruptly to the right, plunging into a defile through a far-flung spur of the main chain of mountains. For the next mile nothing of the work of man's hands was visible, except the well-kept road and the inevitable telephone wires supported by substantial poles of ferro-concrete, until, swinging round a sharp corner, the car emerged into more open country, and gave Peter his first sight of El Toro.

Had Peter found his relative living in a shack, or even a timbered house, he would not have been surprised, for according to what he had previously heard, Brian Strong was not in affluent circumstances.

Again the lad had a surprise. El Toro was quite a substantial affair of white stone, standing amidst picturesque surroundings in extensive grounds, surrounded by a high stone wall much after the style of an English country seat. The house itself was neither high nor impressive, being of only one story on account of the danger from earthquakes; but it was well built and the grounds were in splendid order. There was a lodge by the entrance gate, whence a sweeping drive, bordered with dwarf palm trees, led up to the porticoed house. At one side of the main building was a range of stables, while farther away, and with their rounded roofs only just visible over a slight ridge, were numerous sheds that looked as if they might be workshops.

The motor drew up. Peter alighted and offered the driver a half-dollar piece, which the mulatto refused with a superb gesture worthy of a real Spanish grandee.

Before Peter had recovered from his rebuff, the double doors of the house were flung open by a pair of negro servants. Even as he was ascending the steps of the portico, Peter heard the clatter of heavy boots upon the tiled floor of the hall.

The next instant, his hand was grasped by his Uncle Brian.

"Glad you've got here, Peter!" he exclaimed. "Say, ever been up in an aeroplane? Ever flown at all?"

"No," replied his nephew, too taken aback with the unusual and eccentric greeting to reply except in a monosyllable.

"That's a pity," rejoined Uncle Brian, "a great pity. I wanted a chance to bring you down."

CHAPTER III

Uncle Brian

Brian Strong gave a deprecatory gesture.

"Explanations can wait," he replied. "You must be hungry. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Meanwhile, I'll show you the bathroom. Where's your kit?"

Peter had to admit that he was hungry. The fact that he needed a bath required no verbal confirmation. He was covered with dust. The absence of his baggage was explained.

"If you had only let me know," commented Uncle Brian, "I'd have met you at the landing-stage and saved a lot of bother. What did they rush you for custom dues?"

His nephew told him, at the same time thinking ruefully that his ready capital had already shrunk to three hundred dollars.

"H'm. I think I'd have got you passed through for less than that," commented Mr. Strong. "We'll go into the matter later."

Peter made his way to the bathroom, puzzling his brains over Uncle Brian and his sayings.

He had not seen his uncle for about fifteen years, and impressions at the age of five are apt to be somewhat distorted. Then he remembered Uncle Brian as a tall, gruff-voiced man of great age. Now his uncle looked quite small—hardly up to Peter's shoulder. His voice was still gruff. He usually spoke in short, crisp sentences, until he warmed up to any topic that interested him. His actual age was forty-eight, but his fresh complexion and athletic build made him look much younger.

A mining engineer by profession, Brian Strong had wandered far from the beaten track in the critical years from 1914 onwards. He was in Australia when war was declared, and promptly came home at his own expense to offer his services to his country. They were accepted—after a tedious delay—and his first war-job was that of inspecting hay and straw, notwithstanding his frank assurance that he knew little about hay and straw, beyond being able to distinguish one from another. After twelve months or more of this totally uncongenial and monotonous work, Strong found a slightly better post in the Ministry of Munitions. Here his professional knowledge of mining might have been utilized, but no! He was attached to a section dealing with the extraction of explosives from wood pulp. There was some consolation. He was helping to fight the Huns, albeit still a square peg in a round hole. His last venture during the Great War was more to his liking. He was appointed to the experimental works of a Government aeroplane factory. Here he could show initiative, and before long several of his ideas were embodied in the latest types of bombing machines.

The War over, Brian Strong found himself out of a job. This, of course, he expected; but for various reasons he decided not to return to Australia, but to try his luck in South America. The old roving spirit, rigorously controlled for four years, now reasserted itself. Within ten months he had visited Brazil, Uruguay, the Argentine, Chile, Peru, and Bolivia, and was on the point of making his way to Mexico, when, quite on the spur of the moment, he decided to take up a Government post in the Republic of Rioguay. On the face of it, the appointment was that of consulting mining engineer to the Republic, and was for one year. Already Brian Strong had held the post for three years, but the nature of his duties had nothing to do with mining, but with something entirely different.

That evening, Peter and his uncle dined alone. Usually there were other members of the establishment present—Rioguayans assisting Brian Strong in his work, and very frequently officials from the capital. On this occasion there were no guests, and Brian had dispensed with his usual table companions, since they spoke no English and Peter knew nothing of the dialect of the country.

The meal passed off quite cheerfully, the chief topic of conversation being family affairs. Uncle Brian made no further reference to his bewildering question when Peter first arrived, and his nephew did not seek enlightenment.

Judging by appearances, Brian Strong was in well-to-do circumstances. He had quite a large house with extensive grounds. There were plenty of menservants. The establishment was run on well-ordered lines. To Peter, who had imagined his relative to be roughing it, the display of luxury took him by surprise and in a way damped his spirits. Somehow, he found himself convinced that there was something mysterious behind it all, although he could not offer any suggestion as to why it should be so.

When coffee was served and the two men lighted their cigarettes, Uncle Brian's conversation took a different turn.

"You'll have to learn the language, Peter," he began abruptly.

"Of course," agreed his nephew. "I did think of investing in a Spanish manual before I left England."

"It's as well you didn't," rejoined his uncle, with a grim smile. "You'd have a lot to unlearn if you did. A Spaniard would hardly be able to understand the Rioguayan dialect, although the bulk of the white inhabitants are of Spanish descent. Indian words, which largely make up the language, tend to render the Latin elements unintelligible. But you'll be able to pick up a decent smattering in three months.... I understand you gave up your commission in the navy. Why?"

"Had to—reduction of personnel," replied Peter laconically. "Feel as if I've been on the beach for centuries," he added feelingly.

"Keen on your work, of course?"

"Rather."

"What did you specialize in?"

"Gunnery."

"H'm," commented Uncle Brian, as if the announcement did not interest him very much.

For nearly half a minute he lay back in a lounge-chair, regarding his nephew through half-closed eyes.

"What's your opinion about the big-ship controversy?" he asked at length. "Do you think that the battleship is a back number?"

"No, I do not," replied Peter, for this was a topic that always aroused his professional enthusiasm. "It's the capital ship all the time that will count. History proved that. In the 'eighties the French thought that a horde of torpedo-boats would replace battleships. Destroyers formed the antidote. In the last war the Huns were going to wipe out the British capital ships with their submarines—a sort of attrition process. Did they? They never sunk a single dreadnought or super-dreadnought by means of a submarine attack. The nearest they did was to torpedo the Marlborough at Jutland, and she got home under her own steam. Then there's the aerial menace——"

"Ah!" ejaculated Uncle Brian.

"Wash out," declared Peter. "There's no instance of a warship being destroyed in action by aerial attack."

"But that form of warfare has developed tremendously since the Armistice," remarked his uncle.

"Under peace conditions," Peter reminded him. "Take the Agamemnon tests. That vessel was directed by wireless. There was no crew on board. The airmen could hover over the ship and drop their bombs without hindrance. If her anti-aircraft guns had been manned the conditions would have been very different. As a matter of fact, the navy will find an effective safeguard against aerial attack——"

"Has it?" inquired Uncle Brian eagerly.

"No; but it will," Peter hastened to assure him. "And the big-gun ship will still carry on."

"In limited numbers," corrected Uncle Brian. "In my opinion, this reduction of armaments is, as far as the British Empire is concerned, the greatest possible mistake. No doubt the League of Nations is an admirable theory, but it won't—it can't work. The only way to be at peace is to prepare for war—and to prepare for it so thoroughly that a possible enemy won't have the ghost of a chance. Just fancy! Only a few years before the war there was an outcry against the voting of six millions a year for the increase of the British navy. Six millions a year, and the daily bill, during the war, was a little over that amount! Had we done so, the British fleet would have been maintained at the Three Power standard. Germany wouldn't have tried to wrest the trident from Britannia's grasp, and Kaiser Bill would still be on his throne, amusing himself with military manoeuvres with his army that would be utterly useless for aggressive purposes against either France or Russia.

[Illustration: PETER MEETS SEÑOR DIAZ Page 34]

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.