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."