Читать книгу Clipped Wings - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 10

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Brian Strong did not carry out his promise to show Peter his anti-aircraft invention that evening. Nor did he for several days. Circumstances prevented it. There was a steady stream of callers—Rioguayan officials to discuss matters concerning the development of the Mercantile Air Service. They were delightfully polite, because they had not the slightest suspicion that Brian Strong knew they were trying to bluff him, and the Englishman was equally cautious to convey the impression that he was working merely for the industrial good of the republic.

All things considered, Peter was enjoying himself. He entered whole-heartedly into his part of the contract: to aid his relative to the utmost to circumvent the Rioguayan authorities in the scheme to twist the British lion’s tail. In his spare time he devoted himself to learning the language of the country, his instructor being a Rioguayan employee who had lived in New York for nearly twenty years. Much of his time was spent in the engineering shops, while opportunities were given him to take practical instruction in managing the controls of a planeless flying-boat, in which all would-be pilots had to qualify before entering into the actual conditions of flight.

Thus a week went by and still the building that held Uncle Brian’s secret device remained a sealed book to him. In fact, Brian Strong was so busy with work that demanded the almost constant presence of Don Ramon Diaz and his colleagues, that he himself had to steer clear of the experimental room.

“And how progresses the new type of searchlight, Señor Strong?” inquired Don Ramon. “I should like to see what you are doing in that direction.”

“It is not progressing to the extent I should like,” was the reply. “In fact, there are one or two important details that have completely baffled me. Of course, if you would like to see how far I’ve got with the design——”

“No, no,” said Don Ramon. “It is not really necessary. When you have overcome the difficulties, then it will be a different matter.”

“Quite so,” agreed Uncle Brian with well-feigned disinterestedness. “After all, there’s nothing much to be seen. If and when the apparatus is perfected—when I’ve tested it thoroughly and am satisfied that it fulfils all that is required of it—then, no doubt, you will be willing to negotiate for the exclusive rights say for one year.”

This conversation had the desired result. It put Don Ramon off the scent. He was not keenly interested in an improved searchlight. Those the republic already possessed were of a particularly powerful type and sufficient for defence purposes. He begrudged the time the Englishman spent in the work, but, he reasoned, a refusal on the part of the Rioguayan authorities to allow Brian Strong to experiment in that line might probably result in the foreigner “cutting up rough” and refusing to proceed with his aerial work. That, for the present, would never do. Until the El Toro works could be run independently—without the aid and supervision of Brian Strong—it was policy to humour the unsuspecting Englishman.

One evening at dinner, Uncle Brian suddenly inquired of his nephew:

“Are you under any obligation to the Admiralty, Peter? Have they any call upon you?”

“I signed a paper stating my willingness to serve in the event of hostilities,” replied Peter. “I fancy we all did—those who were pushed out under the so-called economy stunt.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Brian. “It seems to me that signing the document is unnecessary. If it came to a scrap, or even the suggestion of a scrap, you young fellows would clamour to be in it—and the older men too. I remember after the Boer War there were hundreds of men ‘fed up’ with their treatment at the hands of the War Office. They had good cause for complaint, too. ‘Wait till the next war,’ they said, ‘and we’ll take precious good care to be out of it.’ But did they? The majority were amongst the first to volunteer. That’s the Briton all over. He’ll grouse, but if danger threatens from without, he’ll be there! And the greater the danger the greater the enthusiasm to meet it.... Peter, my boy, you’ll be more useful to your country out here than at home—or even in the navy. Come along; let’s take a stroll as far as my experimental shed.”

Nothing loth, Peter fell in with the suggestion. He was curious to know the secret that the experimental shed held. His uncle had hinted at something very mysterious, but beyond that he was dumb.

It was moonlight. Away down the valley came sounds of revelry from the employees’ quarters—men singing to the accompaniment of guitars. The works and aviation sheds appeared deserted, but Peter knew by this time that each place was strictly guarded. And during the walk he fancied he heard movements behind the cacti that bordered the road.

Brian Strong’s private experimental shed stood well apart from the rest of the works. It was by no means a large or a pretentious building, measuring forty feet by twenty and constructed of corrugated iron.

Although Uncle Brian was perfectly aware that the Rioguayan authorities could inspect the building at any time, his careless assurances, coupled with the warning that any interference might destroy the fruit of months of research, had resulted in a state of immunity. He was allowed to carry on undisturbed.

But on the other hand, he guarded himself against a possible visit from his State employers. There were drawings in the office, but they referred to commonplace machinery and appliances. Of his invention, his magnum opus, no plans were in existence, save those that lived in his brain. He took extreme caution lest the future enemies of his country should score on that point.

Producing a bunch of keys, Uncle Brian unlocked the comparatively frail door and switched on a light.

Peter was about to cross the threshold when his uncle stopped him.

“Half a minute,” exclaimed Uncle Brian. “Wait till I’ve put little Timothy to bed.”

His nephew looked in astonishment. Right in the middle of the concrete floor was a coiled-up snake. Hearing footsteps, the reptile raised its head, revealing a pair of deep-set eyes that glittered in the artificial light.

Without hesitation, Uncle Brian grasped the snake at a point about four inches behind the head. The reptile immediately coiled itself round his arm.

“Timothy is quite harmless,” explained Uncle Brian. “I got him from an old Indian up-country. I need hardly say the poison sac has been removed. He makes an excellent guard.”

“So I should imagine,” remarked Peter. “Dashed if I could handle the brute, poisonous or otherwise.”

The snake was placed in a box. Uncle Brian poured out some milk from a bottle, placed the saucer beside the reptile, and closed the lid.

“Now we can get to work,” he said briskly.

Peter glanced around him. There was little or nothing to suggest anything mysterious about the place. On one side of the building was a long bench, absolutely littered with tools, scraps of metal, old bottles, and other débris, together with a lathe and an engineer’s vice. Underneath the bench was a similar assortment of rubbish.

“Bit of a lash up, eh?” commented Uncle Brian. “ ’Fraid I am a bit untidy, but I can generally clear a space when I want to get to work. Bear a hand and shift some of this stuff.”

He pointed to a confused heap at one end of the bench. When the pile of stuff was removed there stood revealed a small contraption that looked as if it were a box camera with an acetylene motor-lamp attached.

“There’s my patent searchlight,” he announced, with boyish enthusiasm. “Don Ramon Diaz and all his precious pals can fool about with that to their hearts’ content. They won’t be a penny the wiser. Look at it. See if you can make anything of it.”

Peter did as he was requested.

“Can’t make head or tail of it, Uncle,” he confessed frankly.

Uncle Brian proceeded to connect up a couple of terminals with a wall switch.

“Now then,” he resumed, “out with the light.”

The next instant the place was in total darkness, the painted glass windows effectually shutting out the brilliant moonlight.

There was a slight click. Peter, looking in the direction where he imagined the apparatus was, could discern nothing, but on the opposite wall was a small circular patch of greenish-hued light.

“Seen anything like that before?” inquired his Uncle.

“Rather,” replied Peter. “Anti-aircraft searchlights during the war. Couldn’t see the beam in its passage through air; when it hit a solid substance it lit it up.”

“This is somewhat similar, but very different,” said Uncle Brian. “Sounds a rummy thing to say, but there you are. I’ll demonstrate. On with the light, Peter.”

Again the room was flooded with electric light. Uncle Brian pointed to a four-cylindered motor standing in one corner.

“Get to work on that,” he continued. “Turn the engine over as fast as you can and see that the plugs are firing. They are already loose in the cylinders. You may as well remove the magneto dust-cap while you are about it.”

Peter did as requested, placing the plugs on the tops of the cylinders, so that he could observe the sparks jumping the gaps between the points and the central rods. There was no mistaking the efficient state of that magneto. It was giving a miniature Brocks’ firework display.

“Now!” exclaimed Uncle Brian.

His nephew continued to turn the geared starting-handle for another dozen revolutions.

Then he stood up and wiped the perspiration from his face.

“By jove!” he almost shouted. “It’s it—absolutely it!”