"That's a fact," admitted his chum soberly.
Cavendish was one of the lucky ones, although, with his characteristic honesty, he could form no idea why his name should have been "ear-marked" for retention in the Service. He had not shone in his exams. More than once he had got into scrapes, harmless enough, during his career at Dartmouth. Perhaps it was the fearless, almost foolhardy feat he had performed in mid-Atlantic, when he took the Baffin's second cutter alongside a burning tanker—a German—and rescued seven survivors from a raging inferno, that had been a deciding factor in his retention.
Probably he alone of all the officers knew the precarious state of Peter Corbold's finances and the gloomy outlook that confronted him. So much he gathered by "putting two and two together". Peter was not a fellow to moan and whine, but was inclined to reticence on the matter.
"What are you going to do, old thing?" he demanded abruptly.
"Haven't any plans," replied Peter. "At least, nothing definite to work upon. Probably I'll go abroad."
"Canada or Australia?"
Corbold shook his head.
"No; I've been thinking of going to Rioguay," he replied. "I've an uncle out there. Mining engineer—nitrates, I believe, but I'm not sure."
"Rioguay? Where's that?" inquired Cavendish. "Somewhere in South America, isn't it?"
"Quite a flourishing little republic," declared Peter. "It has been going steadily ahead ever since that little scrap with Brazil. People are mostly of Spanish and Indian descent, of course, but there's a fair sprinkling of pure Europeans, I've been told."