Читать книгу Clipped Wings - Percy F. Westerman - Страница 8

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.