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. "Not much," replied Peter bluntly. "Looks to me like a cross between a pauper's coffin and an orange box. She'll fill in the first bit of sea we meet." "Not likely to do that," replied his relative. "It's all sheltered water. We'll pile the gear for'ard. Beggars can't be choosers, and this is the best I could pick up for the job. There's a mast and sail; shall we take them?" Peter shook his head emphatically. "Unless you want to make Kingdom Come straight away, Uncle," he said. "She's no keel, so there's no grip on the water. That idiotic rudder on the engine's all right for what it is intended, but you wouldn't be able to keep the boat on a wind with it. She'd broach-to and dive right under at the first hard puff. No, scrap it." Uncle Brian did so. He was no sailorman, and he had the common sense not to pretend that he was. The mast and sail were handed to one of the peons with instructions to take them back to the store, and the work of loading up was resumed. Ten two-gallon tins of petrol, mixed with the necessary quantity of lubricating oil, were stowed amidships, to add to the pile of gear already flush with the coamings. "All aboard, Peter!" exclaimed his uncle, signing to the peons to cast off. The motor, like the majority of two-strokes, started only after considerable persuasion, and the little craft was headed for the broad waters of the Rio Guaya. "I hope we've seen the last of El Toro, Peter," said his uncle, who seemed utterly indifferent to the fact that his whole personal estate had had to be abandoned. Compared with the service he hoped to do to his country, the loss was negligible.