cabin; then I’ll join you.”
Biff had left the door of his cabin unlocked. When he opened the door, he was conscious of a slight stir within. Biff looked toward the porthole that served as a window. Momentarily, it blacked out, then showed plainly against the dimming sunset, as though a figure had squirmed through. Biff stepped out, closing the door, and called down to Li and Kamuka:
“Take a look over the port side and see if someone is hanging on outside my cabin!”
A figure had been hanging on, but no longer. Pushing off from the side of the ship, it straightened in mid-air and plummeted down the side of the freighter, punching the water with scarcely a splash. By the time Li and Kamuka looked over the rail and Biff was gazing from the porthole of the cabin, the lithe brown swimmer was heading shoreward, unseen on the now darkened surface of the river.
The cabin itself was empty. Of that, Biff felt sure as he turned on the light, until a familiar voice spoke almost at his elbow.
“Listen carefully, Biff,” the voice announced. “I have something important to tell you – ”
The effect was electric on Biff. “It’s Dad’s voice!” he exclaimed. By then, the door of the cabin had opened again, and Li and Kamuka were staring in, both bewildered as the voice continued:
“I cannot meet you as I planned, so follow these instructions exactly. Tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock, be at the New India Bazaar in Calcutta – ”
At this, Li exclaimed excitedly, “It’s Mr. Brewster’s voice!” and Kamuka added, “But where is he? I don’t see him?” Then, Biff was pointing, showing them the answer. The voice was coming from a tape recorder that was on a table in the corner, and was connected with a lamp socket in the cabin wall.
“And there you will receive another message,” Mr. Brewster’s voice declared. “Follow it exactly, and you will meet a man we both can trust. He will have more to tell you, so obey his orders to the letter, as if they came from me.”
The tape ran on silently from that point. Biff stopped the recorder as Li asked, in a puzzled tone, “Is this a joke, Biff?” Kamuka, his eyes wide, was silently asking the same question, but Biff shook his head.
“Far from it,” said Biff. “I never heard this tape before, but it’s Dad’s voice, as you both know. He has a recorder just like mine; in fact, I brought this one along because Dad told me that if he had a special message, he would put it on tape for me – just as he has!”
With that, Biff strode to the porthole and looked out over the black river, toward the thousands of lights that were now gleaming from the vastness of Calcutta, largest city in India, and the second greatest metropolis of what had once been the British Empire.
“But who brought the message?” queried Li.
“And why?” added Kamuka.
“Those questions,” returned Biff, “will be answered tomorrow, at the New India Bazaar!”
II
The Boy and the Basket
The last call for dinner interrupted any further comments on the mysterious message. Tonight was a big event, for the chief steward of the Northern Star had gone the limit to please the three youthful passengers on the freighter. The meal consisted of specialties in Brazilian, Hawaiian, and American dishes, with little speeches in between.
But the boys found it difficult to share the spirit of the other passengers and ship’s officers, who were doing their best to entertain them on this last evening together. Biff was sure that morning would bring some confirmation of his father’s message, while Li and Kamuka were wondering whether or not he had sufficient reason to be that confident.
Early the next morning, the three boys were up and on deck when a mail boat came to the Northern Star. A uniformed Hindu handed a telegram to Captain Peterson, the skipper of the freighter, who passed it on to Biff with the comment:
“This is for you rather than for me.”
Li and Kamuka were peering over Biff’s shoulders as he read the message aloud:
“NOTIFY BIFF BREWSTER HIS FATHER CANNOT MEET HIM IN CALCUTTA. HE AND FRIENDS ARE TO PICK UP PLANE RESERVATIONS FOR DARJEELING AND JOIN HIS FAMILY THERE.”
The message was signed by the New Delhi representative of the Ajax Mining Company, for which Biff’s father worked. Captain Peterson told the boys to let him know if they had any trouble finding their plane reservations at the Grand Hotel, where the bus left for the Calcutta Airport at Dum Dum. Biff and his two companions said good-by and packed themselves ashore.
They took a taxicab past the Maidan, the huge park where hundreds of Hindus were asleep on the grassy expanse. Still more were sprawled along the sidewalk of Chowringhi Road, which brought them to the Grand Hotel. There, they found that plane reservations had been made for Darjeeling, but instead of picking them up immediately, Biff inquired the way to the New India Bazaar and found that it was a short rickshaw ride from the hotel.
Soon the boys were riding swiftly through the native quarter of Calcutta, in a two-wheeled, man-hauled carriage that followed narrow streets flanked by rows of old tenement houses and other crude structures filled with the city’s teeming population.
At the New India Bazaar, they found rows of small shops surrounding a busy square where shoppers in Hindu attire carefully side-stepped a sacred cow that was sprawled complacently on the sidewalk. Barkers were babbling in Hindustani, trying to attract trade and one youth, attired in shorts and loose white jacket, was drumming up business by beating the ends of a wooden keg, tom-tom style, drawing a crowd along with him.
The Indian boy looked tall because he was thin, even to his smiling face. He eyed Biff and the other boys closely as he passed them, giving the drum a few quick, extra beats as an invitation to come along. Biff turned to his companions and ran his hand through his shock of blond hair.
“Dad must have given his friend a good description of me,” Biff told the others, “so I am sure to be spotted soon. The more we circulate, the easier it will be to find me, so we may as well see where this drummer boy is leading us.”
They wound up at an open corner where some buildings had been demolished to make way for one of the wide new streets that were being cut through the city’s congested areas. Temporarily, at least, it had been turned into an outdoor theater, for a man in baggy white clothes and a huge turban was beckoning the crowd his way as he announced:
“I, Jinnah Jad, greatest jadoo wallah in Bengal. I make jadoo with duck. You see.”
By “jadoo” Jinnah Jad meant “magic,” and the term “wallah” signified that he performed it. The jadoo wallah filled a small tub with water from a big jar, then placed a miniature imitation duck in the tiny pond thus formed. As Jinnah Jad made mystic passes over the toy duck, it dived into the water, only to come popping up again at his command.
As the boys moved closer with the interested crowd, Jinnah Jad gestured them into a semicircle and announced:
“I show you magic with mango. First I make tent where it can grow – ”
As he spoke, he set three sticks in the ground so they formed a tripod about four feet high. He took a cloth from a big heap and wrapped it around the sticks, making a little tepee. He held up a mango seed, about the size of a large pear, then pushed it in through the opening of the
