Early next morning, the two Englishmen started on their dash for freedom. The final preparations took but little time, compared with the many hours spent in stealth to collect the essential portions of the secret ray apparatus.
The latter, wrapped in oiled silk, were hidden in bags containing provisions, the smaller and intricate pieces being concealed in empty cartridge-cases and placed in Brian's ammunition belt.
They took complete camp equipment, not that they had any idea of travelling on foot with it, but chiefly to lend colour to the deception that they were on a shooting expedition. Heavily-soled boots, leggings, change of socks and underclothing, sleeping-bags, and small mosquito nets, formed their travelling luggage. For defence and as a means of procuring food Brian carried a twelve-bore double-barrelled shot-gun, Peter an Express magazine rifle. In addition, they each had a 230 automatic pistol.
Brian Strong had already handed over the keys and given final instructions to the acting manager, an intelligent Rioguayan, who had more black blood in his veins than white.
The peons carried the gear down to the little landing-stage of the estate, where a small half-tide backwater communicated with the wide estuary of the Rio Guaya.
"There's our boat," announced Brian.
His nephew regarded the craft critically. He was not at all favourably impressed. As a deep-sea sailor he had an instinctive eye for boats. He could judge a small craft's capabilities without going on board and rarely was his judgment at fault.
What he saw was obviously a roughly-built boat of soft wood, about twenty feet over-all and four feet in beam. She drew about four or five inches of water when at rest, while her freeboard seemed decidedly excessive. Her bow and stern were straight; she had little or no sheer, and with the exception of three feet from the bows was entirely open. In fact, viewed broadside-on she resembled what the Americans term a dory, but was without the characteristic sheer that these able little boats possess.
But it was the stern with which Peter found fault. So far the builder, whoever he might be, had made a creditable job, but for some inexplicable reason the after part tapered off, terminating in a transom only nine inches in width. Thus, not only was the boat deprived of useful bearing surface aft, to lift to a following sea, but she was additionally hampered by a heavy out-board motor clamped to the narrow transom.
"What do you think of her?" inquired Uncle Brian.