The Super Flying-boat
Peter Corbold was usually a sound sleeper with an easy conscience, but his first night ashore in Rioguay was a restless one. He had had a tiring day, followed by the disturbing influence of finding himself in utterly strange surroundings; while as a climax came Uncle Brian's lengthy and amazing disclosures.
His bedroom was in the east wing of the building—a spacious apartment, with stone walls and floor, the latter covered with native rush-mats. In one corner was a porcelain bath with shower attachment, in another a wardrobe, with the legs standing in shallow bowls filled with kerosene—a necessary precaution against the destructive insects of that region. The bed was of the folding cot variety, its legs also standing in oil-filled saucers, while in addition, it was fitted with a double mosquito curtain. The two windows were jalousied, while on the outside were iron bars that gave the spacious room a prison-like aspect.
There were electric bells, hot- and cold-water taps, and a ventilating fan, indicating that El Toro was not behind the times as far as the interior fittings went.
Peter lost no time in undressing and turning in. Having made sure that no rest-destroying mosquito lurked within the gauzy network, he switched out the light and closed his eyes.
But sleep he could not. He reviewed the conversation with his uncle. Several things required explanation. What prevented Uncle Brian, even if he remained in Rioguay, from communicating his discoveries to the British Government? Why hadn't the Foreign Office got to know of this seemingly obscure republic's preparations and the creation of a formidable navy and a still more formidable air-fleet? Then, again, what was Ramon Diaz's object in trying to ram down Peter's throat his version of Jutland? These and a score of other questions had for the present to remain unanswered.
Nor could he account for President Jaime Samuda's temerity in contemplating a trial of strength with the British Empire, unless the Rioguayans, taking the case of Ireland as a guide, had utterly underrated the mental and physical fibre of the British nation.
The dawn of another day found Peter opened-eyed and restless on his bed.
With the first blast of the syren summoning the employees of the El Toro works to their labours, Peter rose, completed his toilet, and strolled out of the house.
Somewhat to his surprise, he encountered his uncle looking brisk and spruce, as if the strain of the previous evening's conversation had had no effect upon him.