Peter proceeded with the operation so rapidly and deftly that it left Uncle Brian wondering where his nephew had acquired that knowledge.
In a very few moments the Rioguayan was trussed like a fowl, his sash and belt coming in very useful for the purpose.
"Now a cartridge, Uncle Brian," continued his relative. Uncle Brian handed him one of the rifle cartridges. This Peter wrapped in a handkerchief.
"Open your mouth, old son," he said.
The "old son", although ignorant of English, obliged instantly. It was patent that he, too, had had experience in the gentle art of gagging.
"And that's that," concluded Peter. "Now for the next act of the matinee. We'll kick off from our hiding-place. It's only an eight-foot drop to the beach, and a jolly sight quicker than scrambling down the cliff. I'll take the rifle, please."
Silently and cautiously the two men descended the gully until they reached the breastwork separating the rift from the beach.
Peter peered cautiously in the direction of the flying-boat.
The Rioguayan captain was still at his post in the pilot's seat. He was wearing his leather flying-coat but had thrown back the flaps. He was a swarthy, thick-lipped man with hulking shoulders and a head set well forward—altogether a brutal type of humanity.
"It's like potting a sitting rabbit," thought Peter, as he slipped a cartridge into the breech of his rifle. "It's not giving the fellow a ghost of a chance."