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 allwould-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 typeand 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 bethere! 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, hismagnum 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, oldbottles, 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 slightclick. 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—absolutelyit!"
"I hope so," rejoined Uncle Brian. "Of course, the distance is a mere nothing, but there is no reason why the gadget shouldn't work up to say 20,000 yards."
"It's scuppered that magneto, any old way," declared Peter. "However did you manage it by a ray of light?"
"I didn't," his uncle hastened to explain. "It's not light; it's electro-magnetism. I argued upon these lines. It's possible to send a wireless message through thousands of miles. Cannot a charge of electricity of infinitely greater strength be released through a relatively shorter distance and at the same time be confined to a definite path instead of radiating? For example: suppose Nauen wishes to communicate with, say, Moscow. Provided the receiving instrument is properly attuned, Barcelona, Clifden, and possibly New York can pick up the message. It's similar to throwing a stone in the middle of a circular pool. The ripples will eventually reach the side practically simultaneously at every point. Now, my idea was toconcentrate high potential electric current and confine it to a straight and narrow path with the object of polarizing any magneto in its way."
"And you've done it," declared Peter. "An aircraft wouldn't stand an earthly—I mean an aerial chance. It's bound to come down."
"That's what I'm aiming for," said Uncle Brian. "If this apparatus can be perfected and conveyed to England, then the greatest weapon Rioguay possesses—one that I have forged, although at the time ignorant of the fact—will be broken. Not only that; the aerial menace with which the anti-battleship experts support their theories—poison gas and incendiary bombs raining from the blue sky—will be simply eliminated. Wars of the future—and I am convinced that while the world exists wars are simply bound to take place—will be conducted on more or less straight lines, without involving a holocaust of the helpless non-combatant inhabitants of the belligerent countries. Tanks, armoured cars, and in fact all modern inventions for war relying upon the magneto—the heart of the petrol engine—will be rendered useless, and fighting will once more resume its former status—a contest of manpower."
"Then you don't believe in the theory that war will be so terrible, so scientifically brutal, that nations will be afraid to wage battle?"
"No, I don't," replied Uncle Brian. "It will only be an additional inducement for small nations to defy their greater neighbours. The primal instinct cannever be destroyed, but the means of waging war ought to be controlled. According to the prophets, wars of the future will resemble a prize fight with poisoned rings hidden in the pugilists' gloves."
"Supposing, as is quite possible," objected Peter, "this invention of yours is perfected? What if there's an antidote—what then?"
Uncle Brian shrugged his shoulders—a habit he had acquired from his Rioguayan neighbours.
"That's what I am dreading," he replied. "Meanwhile, I'm going ahead with this gadget. Now you see why I'm keen on your flying. Obviously, I couldn't experiment upon a machine in charge of a Rioguayan pilot. He'd smell a rat. But I can try it in a flying-boat piloted by you, even if there is a crew on board. There would be no danger, since I can control the rays before you are obliged to make a forced landing. I'll see Jaurez in the morning and ask him when you will be sufficiently trained to take charge. We'll give you a week's practice from then and by that time I'll be ready for the big test. Are you game?"
"Rather!" replied Peter.
They spent another hour overhauling the apparatus, Uncle Brian carefully explaining the nature and use of the various component parts until his nephew had a clear and comprehensive insight into the mysteries of the new anti-aircraft device.
Then little Timothy was released from his box to resume his duties of guardian of the experimentalroom, and Brian Strong and his nephew, having locked the door, returned to the house.
Peter had another restless night. He was not altogether satisfied that Uncle Brian's secret would be all that it claimed to be. Unconsciously, he placed himself in the position of Uncle Brian's rival and thought out schemes to counteract the blighting influence of the mysterious rays. Must an aeroplane engine always be fired electrically? he asked himself. Is a magneto or a battery and trembler-coil asine qua nonfor the work? It was quite within the bounds of possibility that a dynamo-driven engine might be produced, receiving its current by means of a wireless current. Or there was the hot-bulb engine—far too heavy in its present form for aerial work, but was it too much to expect that in the near future it could be reduced in weight and bulk without any sacrifice of horse-power?
"I hope Uncle Brian isn't putting all his eggs into one basket," he soliloquized. "By Jove! I'll try a little experiment on my own account. It will be rough luck on Uncle Brian if it comes off; but better now than later."
And with the new-born plan maturing in his active mind, Peter lay awake until pink hues in the eastern sky heralded the dawn of yet another strenuous day.
According to his resolve, Brian Strong tackled Jaurez, the chief aviator instructor, on the subject of his nephew's progress.
"He is a born bird-man, señor," replied Jaurez,with an admiration that even his secret contempt for Englishmen failed to suppress. "Reckless,nombre de Dios!yes; but he can keep his head. In three days, perhaps, then he will be sufficiently expert to go up in control."
"That is good news," said Brian Strong.
Suddenly the instructor's mood changed.
"For why, Señor Strong, does your nephew wish to fly?" he demanded. "Surely Rioguay can produce sufficient pilots without having to make use of Englishmen?"
"I won't dispute that, Señor Jaurez," rejoined Peter's uncle. "But it so happens that there are certain modifications in the design which I wish to test. My knowledge of the Rioguayan tongue is fair, as you know, but there are several technical terms of which I am ignorant. You can readily see that there would be difficulties innumerable if I had to discuss the improvements with a Rioguayan pilot."
Señor Jaurez grinnedamicably. Previous experience had taught him that Brian Strong's assertion was a correct one. In the earlier stages of the El Toro experimental and constructive works the language difficulty had been a serious obstacle. He was a disciple of the doctrine "follow the line of least resistance".
Eight days later, Peter went up for the first time as sole pilot of that notorious flying-boatEl Boyeta, but on this occasion he was accompanied by three Rioguayan airmen who were sufficiently "salted" to beimmune from that distressing malady, air-sickness. Uncle Brian was nowhere to be seen. He had retired to his private experimental shed, having previously given Peter certain instructions.
According to the usual custom, Peter went on board to test the controls. He was rather a long time—not that the testing was a lengthy affair.
As soon as he gained the for'ard motor-room, he proceeded to enclose the magneto of each of the two for'ard motors with sheets of pure Para rubber, making a tight joint to each of the high tension and "earth" wires.
The mechanic watched him curiously, but, having been given to understand that certain experiments were to be carried out, he took the unusual procedure with equanimity.
"Now," thought Peter, "won't Uncle be surprised if he succeeds in only cutting out the after-engines. We'll see if his secret ray will penetrate this insulated screen. I don't fancy it will."
He made his way back to the pilot's seat and gave the recognized signal that everything was O.K. The rest of the crew swung themselves into the observation saloon, while the ground attendants removed the chocks from the massive, tyred landing-wheels.
Peter depressed the switch controlling the four electric starters. Instantly the propellers revolved and the flying-boat quivered as if eager to soar into her natural element.
A very short run—barely thirty yards—was enoughfor the machine to acquire momentum sufficient to part company with Mother Earth. With the planes tilted to their maximum angle, the flying-boat almost leapt upwards.
The British pilot let her climb steadily, until the altimeter registered 1800 metres. Then he flew steadily eastwards until the flying-boat was immediately over the spacious lake of Sta Estralloda. If the electric current were cut off and a hitch occurred whereby Peter would be unable to restart the motors, the flying-boat could descend and take the surface with little risk. A forced landing on unsuitable and unyielding land might end disastrously.
With frequent glances at the clock on the dashboard, Peter kept the flying-boat soaring above the sheet of water. Although he did not turn his head, he knew that curious eyes were watching him through the window between the saloon and his "office". Ostensibly, the experiments were to prove the efficacy of a loud-speaking wireless telephone that claimed to be proof against atmospherics and "cutting in". It was sheer bluff on Brian Strong's part, but it sufficed to allay suspicion as to the real nature of the test.
The hands of the clock simply crawled round until they indicated 10.15—the pre-arranged time for the liberation of the secret ray.
Nothing happened! The motors continued to purr with their usual rhythm. It made no difference that the magnetos of the for'ard pair were insulated and those of the after engines were not.
On the face of things, Uncle Brian's experiment was a failure.
Another minute elapsed. Peter continued to keep the flying-boat circling, at the same time descending to 1500 metres.
Suddenly the whole fabric trembled violently. The engines ceased firing, the propellers turning on a free axis under wind pressure only. Then, in less than five seconds, the motors "picked up" again and resumed their normal revolutions.
Glancing downwards, Peter could see the mechanic had been aroused from his usual state of lethargy; for, in ordinary circumstances, he had little or nothing to do while the machine was in actual flight. Whether the engineer in charge of the after motors had been similarly startled Peter had no immediate means of finding out.
But what puzzled the pilot was the brief duration of the "short". Uncle Brian had arranged for a sixty-seconds liberation of the polarizing rays. Without the shadow of a doubt, the momentary cutting out of the "juice" was owing to Uncle Brian's "gadget". Had one motor only faltered, Peter might have attributed that to known engine trouble; since all four were affected simultaneously, the phenomenon could only be put down to the mysterious rays.
Peter Corbold was a fellow who always liked to get down to rock bottom, when dealing with a knotty proposition. He was still puzzling over the affair andtrying to find a possible solution, when once again the motors ceased functioning.
This time, the "cutting out" was definitely prolonged. Peter prepared for a vol-plane, elevating the wings to their maximum resistance in order to check the downward glide, the while circling to keep the flying-boat immediately over the expanse of lake.
For all practicable purposes the machine was now a motorless glider without the power, owing to her weight and the limited area of the planes, to rise to a favourable air current. The best she could do was to fly horizontally for a few seconds and then glide earthwards. Sooner or later, unless the engines regained their power, the machine must come to rest on the surface of the water.
The Rioguayan crew were now in a state bordering on panic. It was fortunate that Peter had taken the precaution to bolt the door between him and them, or his office would have been invaded, with disastrous results.
Foiled in that direction, the Rioguayans could only stare helplessly, until the sight of the hare-brained Englishman coolly manipulating the planes and rudders helped to restore them to a state of passivity.
All this occurred in the space of forty-five seconds. Peter was beginning to doubt whether he could keep up for the remainder of the stipulated minute when at a height of one hundred metres the motors fired again.
"Well, that's proved the device, any old way,"decided Peter, as he began to ascend again. "My insulation stunt is a dud, but I'm jolly glad it is."
Another twenty minutes elapsed before the flying-boat landed at El Toro, for Peter was in no hurry, as he wished to restore confidence in his somewhat tremulous fellow-airmen.
Uncle Brian was there to greet him.
"It's no good, Uncle," Peter lied loudly. "The telephone was an absolute wash-out. I even switched off to try and pick up what you were saying."
If there were any Rioguayans amongst those present who understood English, Peter's mendacious assertion would serve to offer a solution to the failure of the flying-boat's ignition system. In fact, Brian Strong hastened to translate the gist of his nephew's explanation. At the same time, Uncle Brian knew that his secret device had been proved and had passed the test. Peter's declaration that he "switched off" was sufficient for that. Mutual and authentic exchanges of their observations would come at the next convenient opportunity.
For the present, all was well.
"Well?" inquired Uncle Brian laconically, when, the trial of the rays duly carried out, he and Peter were free to discuss the situation in all its bearings.
The two men were seated in the billiard room of El Toro. It was the time for siesta, but on this occasion neither Uncle Brian nor Peter sought repose. In the darkened room, for the double windows and the jalousied shutters were closed, they felt more like conspirators than loyal citizens of that great Empire upon which the sun never sets.
Four large electric fans were purring gently, not only to circulate the air, but to render conversation inaudible to anyone without. This, in Brian Strong's opinion, was a necessary precaution. Although work was entirely suspended during siesta, it was quite possible that there were persons about keenly anxious to overhear any conversation between the two Englishmen.
"It worked," replied Peter.
"So I gathered," rejoined his relative. "But——"
"But what?"
"You weren't dead on time, Uncle," said Peter. "Then, when you released the rays the action was only momentary at first. The second attempt was prolonged, but not to anything like a minute."
"I'll explain," said Brian Strong. "I kept the day telescopic sights on you the whole time and released the electric charge sharp on time. As far as I could observe, there were no results. I was beginning to feel a bit disappointed, I'll admit, until after some considerable time I noticed that you were gliding down. I had previously given the vernier screw regulating the telescopic sights a few turns. Then I realized what had happened. Either the line of sight was not exactly parallel with the centre of the beam of electricity, or else there was some discrepancy due possibly to parallax. Once your flying-boat was correctly registered, so to speak, you were under the influence of the rays. So I decided to give a full minute for the experiment."
"But you didn't," objected Peter. "The old 'bus picked up again in forty-five seconds. You can be pretty sure I had my eye on the clock all right!"
"That's what I wanted to know," continued his uncle. "You see, I gave a full minute's liberation. You say your magnetos were cut out for three-quarters of a minute only. That was because I couldn't see you during the last fifteen seconds. You were hidden from direct observation by an intervening ridge."
"I see," observed Peter, nodding his head.
"So do I now," added Strong. "I had hoped that the rays would be active beyond an obstruction of that sort. Had they been so, it would be possible to keep a whole fleet of aeroplanes pinned to the ground, unable to rise. It is a curious point as to what does happen: whether the electric fluid is deflected by intervening ground or whether it stands dead up against it—like a beam of light, for instance, playing upon a dead black substance. Then, again, we've proved that the metal fuselage affords no insulation to protect the magnetos from the rays."
"Nor does a sheet of rubber," announced Peter. "I tried that little stunt on my own."
"Did you?" remarked his uncle. "Evidently you hadn't much faith in my invention."
"Not that," Peter hastened to assure him. "It was simply to see if there were an easy means to render the ignition system immune from the rays. I was jolly glad I wasn't able to baulk you, Uncle."
"Well, that's a good thing," said Brian Strong. "The next step is to dismantle the projector, pack up the vital portions of the apparatus, and make a hurried exodus from Rioguay. It's easier said than done, Peter, and unless I'm very much out in my calculations, we'll have our hands full when we do come to tackle the problem."
"What's to prevent our going down to Tepecicoa and taking passage to Bahia? There's a steamer running once a week."
"Nothing to prevent us making a start," replied hisuncle, "but the chances of our getting clear of Rioguay by that means are very remote. There would be a regrettable accident—according to the Rioguayan official version for foreign consumption—and there you are, or, rather, are not."
"But isn't there a British consul in Tepecicoa?" persisted Peter, who found it hard to believe that a British subject is not always, and in all circumstances, free to indulge his propensity for foreign travel.
"There is no British consul," was the reply. "Rioguay in the opinion of the Foreign Office isn't a state of sufficient importance to justify that expensive luxury. There is a British Consular Agent, who happens to be a Portuguese of doubtful antecedents. I don't suppose he has a British subject in his office once in a twelvemonth. You see, there's no direct trade with Great Britain. Time was, before the Great War, when vessels flying the Red Ensign came up the Rioguay to San Antonio, Calador, and even as far up as Tepecicoa. Nowadays, owing to the slump in British shipping and the relatively high prices charged for British goods, there is never a vessel of our nationality to be seen in Rioguayan waters. If the Rioguayans require hardware they go to the United States for it. In fact, it seems to me that there's a boycott of British goods out here, and all indications point to a growing hostility to Britain and everything connected with her. Personally, I'm inclined to think that we're going to have trouble with Rioguay one of these days, and big trouble, too."
For some minutes, there was silence. Both men were thinking hard. Presently, Uncle Brian walked across the room to a cabinet, which, when opened, disclosed a tantalus, glasses, and several siphons of soda.
"No, I'm not going to ask you to have a drink, Peter," he laughed. "This stuff is for the use of my Rioguayan friends—if friends I may call them. But it happens that this cabinet has a secret drawer, which I find most useful."
He pressed a concealed spring. A long, narrow section of the side swung back. From the recess, Uncle Brian drew a roll of stiff paper.
"Here's a map of Upper Rioguay," he announced. "Of course, it's far from perfect, but in the main it is fairly reliable. I got it from a fellow in Venezuela before I came here. In fact, having acquired it, I was rather curious to make personal acquaintance with the country. It was made when there was a dispute between Rioguay and Venezuela over the fixing of the frontier. Evidently the Venezuelans contemplated an invasion of Rioguay, but either the difference was amicably settled or they thought that sending a force through that difficult country was too stiff a proposition. Now, if you had to decide upon a plan to get out of the country, what would you decide upon?"
"I'd make for either San Benito or San Valodar," said Peter promptly. "Both have a coast-line. Once across the frontier, there's a thundering good chance of picking up a ship."
"Exactly," rejoined Uncle Brian drily. "When you are clear of Rioguay. But what chance would you stand to get even as far as Valodar without being arrested? My boy, you underrate the secret service of the republic. You might—-I say might with great emphasis—you might gain possession of one of the flying-boats. But to what purpose? They'd fix your position with their magneto detectors. There would be half a dozen aircraft waiting for you before you as much as caught a glimpse of the sea. Even supposing you got as far as the supposedly neutral republics of San Benito or San Valodar, you'd find both places swarming with Rioguayan agents who wouldn't hesitate to stick a knife into your back, or pump half a dozen shots out of an automatic into you. Assassination under the guise of robbery. That's what would happen. No, Peter, it can't be done. We'll have to think of another way."
"Have you thought of anything?" asked Peter, who for the first time fully appreciated the intricacies of the problem by which Uncle Brian was confronted.
"I have," replied Uncle Brian. "I've been thinking it out for months—almost as soon as I discovered what I was engaged for. There's one line of retreat."
He pointed to the chart, indicating a vast extent of mountainous country, through which several rivers wended their way. The whole district, judging from the map, was devoid of towns and villages. Occasionally an outpost was indicated, where detachments of armed police were stationed for no other apparentpurpose than to keep watch over an uninhabited district.
"Of course, we may not find these police posts," continued Uncle Brian. "Since the settlement of the boundary dispute they may have been withdrawn. Tajeco, whence our pipe line runs, is the only place of any consequence. Apart from that, the whole country is mountainous, with the valleys stiff with tropical forests. Now, this is my plan: see these two rivers—the Rio Tinto and the Rio del Morte? They both join the Rio Guaya at about thirty miles above Tepecicoa. As you know, ordinary navigation is impossible ten miles above the town, owing to shallows, but canoes and light draft craft can ascend both the Rio Tinto and the Rio del Morte for a considerable distance. In fact, the Rio del Morte has never been explored to its source, so the map is merely guesswork as far as that river is concerned. That's our way to freedom, Peter. It will be a difficult, a hazardous way, but with luck we'll win through."
"We'll have a jolly good shot at it," declared Peter with grim determination. "But how can we get away from here without arousing suspicion? For anything we know, your friend Diaz may be keeping an eye on us already."
"Bluff," replied his uncle. "I'll tackle Don Ramon Diaz, tell him I'm badly in need of a holiday. Fact!" he continued; "haven't been ten miles from El Toro for months. We'll get his permission for a ten-daysshooting trip up the Rio Guaya. He'll probably takegood care that we do go up, not down, because he'd never imagine that we were fools enough to attempt to penetrate that wild and mountainous country. We'll give out that we are exploring the Rio Tinto, but in reality we'll make a dash up the Rio del Morte as far as we can by water and foot it the rest of the way. It won't be a picnic, Peter, I can assure you. We'll have to travel light, depend upon our rifles for food, probably be half frozen before those mountains are crossed—but it's worth it."
"Rather!" agreed Peter Corbold enthusiastically.
"How does your marvellous searchlight progress, Señor Strong?" inquired Don Ramon Diaz.
Brian shook his head.
"Not at all well, Señor," he replied. "In fact, I'm beginning to think I've worked myself to a standstill."
"Is that so?" said the Rioguayan, giving the Englishman a sharp glance. "But, as a rule, one does not test searchlights by day."
"In this case one does," replied Brian. "If the combined telephone and searchlight apparatus can be perfected—as no doubt some day it will—you will reap the benefit. Or at least, the Republic of Rioguay will. Regarding daylight experiments, you will agree that it is easier to make delicate adjustments by natural light. The testing under actual working conditions at night will be made later. But that brings me to another point, Señor. I'm badly in want of a holiday."
"Not a long one, I beg?"
"Oh no," replied Brian jauntily. "A week or tendays. My nephew and I would like to have a shooting trip up the Rio Tinto."
"It is dangerous—very dangerous," declared Ramon Diaz. "And, Señor, we do not want to lose your valuable services just yet."
"Perhaps not," rejoined the Englishman. "But there are other ways of doing that without running risks on the Rio Tinto."
"What do you mean?" demanded the Rioguayan suspiciously.
"For instance, I might have brain fever through overwork," replied Brian. "I feel pretty confident that on my return I can tackle the present perplexing problem with a far better chance of success."
Ramon Diaz considered the matter. He realized that he was in a position to refuse to grant permission. But at the same time, it was too early to show himself in his true colours. He had to make more use of the Englishman's undoubted skill before Rioguay was in a position to throw down the gauntlet to the British Empire. And Señor Strong's request was not unreasonable. He was supposed to be a free agent in the employ of the Rioguayan Government. To thwart him might cause trouble. He had not asked to go for a holiday to San Benito or anywhere in that direction. He wished to go up-country into the wilds beyond which was an impassable mountain chain, or at least impassable except with a train of mules to carry provisions and stores for a prolonged and perilous trek. No, there was no risk as far as Don Ramon wasconcerned. The Englishman would still be a prisoner in Rioguayan territory.
"Very good, Señor Strong," he said. "We can spare you for ten days. I hope you have good sport. Of course, if you like, we will send along a flying-boat to see how you fare in case your boat meets with a mishap and you are stranded."
"I should be delighted, Señor Diaz," replied Brian, without as much as a flicker of his eyelids. "Say in a week's time. She would be quite able to spot us up the Rio Tinto. I do not suppose we'll ascend for more than thirty kilometres."
The two parted, Ramon Diaz shaking hands with himself at the prospect of being able to verify his suspicions as to what Señor Strong's secret invention actually was; Brian chuckling with satisfaction at the thought that he had bluffed the Rioguayan so neatly.
Early next morning, the two Englishmen started on their dash for freedom. The final preparations took but little time, compared with the many hours spent in stealth to collect the essential portions of the secret ray apparatus.
The latter, wrapped in oiled silk, were hidden in bags containing provisions, the smaller and intricate pieces being concealed in empty cartridge-cases and placed in Brian's ammunition belt.
They took complete camp equipment, not that they had any idea of travelling on foot with it, but chiefly to lend colour to the deception that they were on a shooting expedition. Heavily-soled boots, leggings, change ofsocks and underclothing, sleeping-bags, and small mosquito nets, formed their travelling luggage. For defence and as a means of procuring food Brian carried a twelve-bore double-barrelled shot-gun, Peter an Express magazine rifle. In addition, they each had a 230 automatic pistol.
Brian Strong had already handed over the keys and given final instructions to the acting manager, an intelligent Rioguayan, who had more black blood in his veins than white.
The peons carried the gear down to the little landing-stage of the estate, where a small half-tide backwater communicated with the wide estuary of the Rio Guaya.
"There's our boat," announced Brian.
His nephew regarded the craft critically. He was not at all favourably impressed. As a deep-sea sailor he had an instinctive eye for boats. He could judge a small craft's capabilities without going on board and rarely was his judgment at fault.
What he saw was obviously a roughly-built boat of soft wood, about twenty feet over-all and four feet in beam. She drew about four or five inches of water when at rest, while her freeboard seemed decidedly excessive. Her bow and stern were straight; she had little or no sheer, and with the exception of three feet from the bows was entirely open. In fact, viewed broadside-on she resembled what the Americans term a dory, but was without the characteristic sheer that these able little boats possess.
But it was the stern with which Peter found fault.So far the builder, whoever he might be, had made a creditable job, but for some inexplicable reason the after part tapered off, terminating in a transom only nine inches in width. Thus, not only was the boat deprived of useful bearing surface aft, to lift to a following sea, but she was additionally hampered by a heavy out-board motor clamped to the narrow transom.
"What do you think of her?" inquired Uncle Brian.
"Not much," replied Peter bluntly. "Looks to me like a cross between a pauper's coffin and an orange box. She'll fill in the first bit of sea we meet."
"Not likely to do that," replied his relative. "It's all sheltered water. We'll pile the gear for'ard. Beggars can't be choosers, and this is the best I could pick up for the job. There's a mast and sail; shall we take them?"
Peter shook his head emphatically.
"Unless you want to make Kingdom Come straight away, Uncle," he said. "She's no keel, so there's no grip on the water. That idiotic rudder on the engine's all right for what it is intended, but you wouldn't be able to keep the boat on a wind with it. She'd broach-to and dive right under at the first hard puff. No, scrap it."
Uncle Brian did so. He was no sailorman, and he had the common sense not to pretend that he was. The mast and sail were handed to one of the peons with instructions to take them back to the store, and the work of loading up was resumed.
Ten two-gallon tins of petrol, mixed with the necessary quantity of lubricating oil, were stowed amidships, to add to the pile of gear already flush with the coamings.
"All aboard, Peter!" exclaimed his uncle, signing to the peons to cast off.
The motor, like the majority of two-strokes, started only after considerable persuasion, and the little craft was headed for the broad waters of the Rio Guaya.
"I hope we've seen the last of El Toro, Peter," said his uncle, who seemed utterly indifferent to the fact that his whole personal estate had had to be abandoned. Compared with the service he hoped to do to his country, the loss was negligible.
All day the pauper's-coffin-cum-orange-box was kept hard at it. Even during the terrific midday heat, with nothing save their broad-brimmed straw hats to shield them from the almost vertical rays, they stuck it gamely. Their freak craft was taking them steadily at four knots "over the ground", in spite of an adverse current which they encountered as soon as the influence of the tide ceased.
Well before nightfall, the boat was alone on the river. Rarely were craft of any description to be encountered fifty miles above Tepecicoa. Occasionally, an Indian canoe, rough-hewn from a tree-trunk, was seen keeping discreetly close to the well-wooded banks, but civilized Rioguay seemed to have halted sharply at a spot where a range of low hills dipped to allow the now shallow stream to pass on its way to the ocean.
So far, the craft that had aroused Peter's resentment had done remarkably well. He was beginning to feel a certain amount of confidence in her; but, he reminded himself, there had been no wind and the water was as smooth as a mill pond.
As a matter of fact, a tornado might be blowing and the surface of the river would be hardly ruffled, provided the wind was at right angles to the course of the stream, for the banks were high and deeply wooded. In places the giant vegetation almost formed a complete archway over the river. Caymans floated idly on the water, looking more like half-sunken logs, until the approach of the motor-driven boat aroused them from their lethargy. Enormous eels, some of them of the deadly electric variety, could be seen beneath the placid surface, giving promise of a horrible death to any human being who, by accident or design, had to take to swimming in those cool and tranquil waters. Through the foliage came the unmistakable signs of the presence of jaguars and panthers, while more than once Peter caught sight of an enormous anaconda gliding over the branches.
With death lurking in the water and in the forests on either side, the prospect did not seem particularly alluring.
Well before sunset, the boat was run ashore on a small island, almost destitute of trees and covered with high grass. On one side there was a narrow sandy beach. The other sides were composed of rock rising sheer out of the water to a height of about ten feet.
"This looks like a comfortable camping-ground," observed Uncle Brian, as he leapt ashore and stretched his cramped legs. "According to the map, we're only five miles below the junction of the Rio Tinto and the Rio Guaya. I'd like to push on and get clear of the forests for a while, but it's too risky in the dark."
"S'pose it's all right," responded his nephew, "but how about the grass? I've no particular desire to get chawed up by a jaguar or pipped by a snake. And if we sleep on the sand, or even in the boat, there's a chance of a hungry alligator butting in."
"We must get sleep," declared Uncle Brian. "It is absolutely essential at this stage of our journey. Later on we may not have the opportunity. We'll keep watch-and-watch. As an extra precaution, I think we'll fire this grass."
"Don't forget we've gallons and gallons of petrol on the boat," Peter reminded him.
"By Jove, yes," agreed his uncle. "All right, Peter, you push off in the boat until the grass has burned itself out. It won't be very long."
Peter took to the oars and rowed the "orange-box" well out into the stream. Brian Strong struck a match and applied it to the sun-dried grass. The result exceeded his expectations. The flames literally ran, throwing orange-coloured tongues of fire fifty feet in the air.
The heat was terrific. Although he retreated to the water's edge, with twenty yards of sand betweenhim and the edge of the conflagration, Brian could barely stand his ground.
It was a nasty predicament. To shout to Peter to bring the boat in would probably result in the petrol exploding, since the sparks were flying to wind'ard, which was what Brian Strong had thought he had guarded against. To attempt to swim off was equally hazardous, owing to the presence of the deadly electric eels.
The flames died down almost as quickly as they had shot up, although on the furthermost side of the island the fire was burning even more fiercely than before.
In a quarter of an hour the place was thoroughly cleared of animal and vegetable life, the bare rock showing through the diminishing wreaths of smoke from the smouldering timber.
"We've cleared out the mosquitoes at all events," declared Peter, as he rejoined his uncle and once more made the boat secure. "S'pose this packet will be all right in case of a shift of wind?"
"We're sheltered," declared Uncle Brian. "The only wind that can hurt us is a southerly one. That's very rare in this district; it's the Norther that plays up Old Harry.... Right-o, you turn in. I'll keep watch till midnight; that's another five hours. We'll make a start at dawn."
Clearing away a space amidships, Peter lay down in the boat and was soon sound asleep, his strange surroundings notwithstanding. In fact, it seemed to himthat he had only just dropped off when his uncle roused him.
"Half-past twelve, Peter," he announced.
Peter had been used to keeping Middle Watch, but, if the truth be told, he would have infinitely preferred the bridge of a British cruiser at 1 a.m. to the stretch of sand on the edge of the fire-devastated island.
It was not pitch-dark. A dank mist hung over the river, blotting out the tree-clad banks on either hand. Overhead, the stars shone dimly through the drifting pall of vapour. The air reeked with noxious odours of decaying vegetation mingled with the sickly smell from the burnt grass.
From the depths of the forests came unmistakable sounds to indicate that the never-ceasing war between the various denizens was being briskly prosecuted. The shrill cries of a colony of monkeys, their rest suddenly disturbed by a hungry puma, the death-cry of a deer, crushed to the ground by the irresistible weight of a leaping jaguar; the squeal of agony of some luckless animal seized in the act of drinking on the riverbank, by the powerful jaws of a cayman—these were but a few of the noises that disturbed the silence of the tropical night.
The river flowed silently past the rocky islet on which the Englishmen were camping, but even the river contributed to the disturbing factors. Ever and again there was a sullen splash, as a semi-torpid alligator collided with another of his kind.
A little later on—it must have been about two inthe morning—Peter noticed several dark objects drifting downstream. At first he thought that they were caymans, until one of them, hitching upon a submerged rock, revealed itself as a huge tree trunk. Swinging round, the massive log fouled another projection. Quickly a second trunk drifted against the first, then another, and yet another, until the "jam" assumed gigantic proportions, extending from midstream to within ten or twelve yards from the sandy beach of the little island.
Suddenly, from the rapidly increasing raft, a lithe shape leapt shorewards. Its leap was insufficient to clear the intervening space. It fell into the water and commenced swimming for the island.
Before Peter could grasp the situation and level his rifle, the animal rushed past him at a distance less than fifty paces, and with a cat-like bound gained the high rocky ground and disappeared from view.
It was a jaguar, one of the most formidable and cunning animals of the South American forests. And now the brute, possibly ravenous from its prolonged stay on the floating log, was marooned on a barren islet. In such circumstances it would not hesitate to attack man.
It was no exaggeration to say that Peter "had the wind up"—badly. The bare rock eight feet high and less than twenty feet from the boat, offered an excellent "take off" for a hungry jaguar. Yet Peter hesitated to rouse his relative. Although he was in a blue funk, it struck him that it was a far greateradmission of fear to have to acknowledge the fact. Very cautiously, he laid down his rifle and took up the double-barrelled shot-gun, reasoning that with a heavy charge of buck-shot he stood a better chance of dealing with the huge feline than with a rifle.
Then, with his face to the menacing wall of rock, and with the gun held at the "ready", Peter prepared for the coming attack, since he felt certain that the jaguar would take the offensive.
From that moment he had no knowledge of the passing of time. It seemed an hour, perhaps more, before the tension was relaxed.
Somewhere on his right he felt certain that there was something moving. In the misty starlight he could discern, as he turned his head, a long, writhing object moving over the sand. At first he took the creature to be a large eel, but soon he was certain that the thing was a huge serpent.
It was only ten paces off when Peter brought the gun to his shoulder and pressed the left trigger. The weapon clicked harmlessly. He pressed the right trigger. The result was the same.
Dropping the useless weapon, Peter grasped the previously discarded rifle. A vivid flash stabbed the night air, followed by a sharp report that sent myriads of birds fluttering in terror from the trees on the river banks.
Whether the bullet took effect or not Peter could not tell, but the reptile slewed round and with almost incredible rapidity made for the rocky wall of the island.
"Hello! What's wrong?" inquired Uncle Brian, awake in a moment.
Peter briefly outlined the situation.
"H'm!" ejaculated his uncle. "Seems to me that we've chosen a sort of animal casual ward for our camp. Two misfires? Where's my torch?"
The electric torch was soon forthcoming. Brian Strong picked up the gun and ejected both cartridges. On examination the caps in their bases showed no sign of a blow.
Brian said nothing, but thought the more.
He placed the double-barrelled weapon in the boat and unfastened the flap of his automatic holster.
"Almost wish we'd carried on," he remarked at length. "At all events——"
A crumbling, swirling sound interrupted his remarks. The "jam" that had been steadily and almost silently mounting up for the last hour or more had suddenly given way. The pent-up waters had forced the barrier of logs from the rocks that had impeded their progress, and now in a smother of foam the accumulated floating timber was speeding on its way.
"No," continued Uncle Brian. "I think we'd better hang on where we are. We'll make a fire to cheer us up, though."