Читать книгу Clipped Wings - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 6

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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 wolf-hound 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 wolf-hound 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——!”