Under Chinese Eyes
“You said two men,” Biff repeated. “I’ll just bet you that one of them
was the joker who paid me a visit this morning!”
“You had a visitor? Early this morning?” Ling Tang asked.
“I’ll say I did. Not a visitor, though. A spy, maybe—sneaking around the
yard and—”
“Hold it, Biff,” his father interrupted. “Why don’t you show Mr. Ling
what the intruder brought you?”
“Brought me,” Biff muttered to himself as he opened the safety catch of
his key chain. “Some way to bring anything to someone!” He removed the
ring from a tangle of keys—to his foot-locker, his suitcase, a “secret”
box, and to several things he had long since forgotten about. Taking the
ring by the thick circle of gold, he held it out to the Chinese
gentleman.
Ling took the ring in his thin hands. He looked at it carefully.
“A beautiful piece of jade,” he murmured. Bringing the ring closer to
his eyes, he took a loupe—a jeweler’s magnifying glass—from his pocket
to inspect the ring more minutely. While he did this, Biff filled him in
on how the ring had been “delivered.”
“Exquisitely carved,” Tang said, removing the loupe from his eye.
“What’s carved on it?” Biff asked.
“It’s the Chinese character which, roughly, would stand for the capital
letter ‘K.’”
“Does that have any significance for you, Tang?” Mr. Brewster asked.
“Indeed it does. This is the ring of the great House of Kwang. Before
the Communists took over, it was one of the richest and strongest houses
in all China. This ring was worn by the Great Lord of the house, and by
his sons, the young lords.”
“It’s funny I should get one of them,” Biff said, laughing. “I’m no
young lord.”
Ling Tang smiled. “Most mysterious, true,” he agreed.
“And if they wanted to give me a ring, why didn’t they just send it to
me, instead of throwing it through my window and ruining the screen?”
“You did receive it in a most dramatic fashion.”
“You can bet all the tea in China I did,” Biff said.
“Perhaps, young man,” Ling said, “you received it as you did, so that he
who presented it to you could keep his identity a secret. Even more
important”—Ling paused to drive home his point—“he did it to keep you
from seeing what he looked like.”
Biff and his father exchanged concerned glances.
“Were you acquainted with the House of Kwang? Did you know its master?”
Mr. Brewster asked.
“It is an old, old family, once strong, once rich.” An expression of
sadness passed fleetingly across Tang’s face. “Until the Reds moved in
and made ruthless changes, the House of Kwang lived in the same age-old
feudal manner as had the founder of the family generations ago. They had
rich farm lands and houses of many courts. In the Old Lord’s house, he
who was called the Ancient One, there were more than a hundred courts.
In America you would call them apartments or suites. Each court had its
sleeping room. A room for eating. And a room, beautifully decorated with
a small fish pond in its center, where the lords of the house would go
to think and meditate and honor the memories of their fathers and their
fathers’ fathers.”
“And this no longer exists?” Mr. Brewster asked his friend.
“Gone. All gone. The farm lands divided up into small communes; the
mines, the grain-storage house snatched away. But the family still
clings together. They still resist. Many of them are in hiding from
local Red officials. The earthly possessions of the House of Kwang have
been torn from them. But the family is still a proud one. They aid one
another, even to helping the older members escape into the free world.”
Thomas Brewster had been doing some heavy thinking. “Tang,” he said.
“Tell me this. In what part of China was the House of Kwang located?”
“In the province of Yunnan, south and somewhat west of Kunming, the
capital of the province.”
Mr. Brewster was creating the map of China in his mind’s eye. “That
would be near the border of Burma.”
Ling Tang nodded his head gravely.
“Not far from Unhao, on the Irrawaddy River?” Biff’s father inquired.
“Your memory of China is excellent, my friend. Once the Old Lord, Tao
Kwang, made annual pilgrimages to Rangoon to visit the shrine of the
Gautama Buddha, the magnificent pagoda of Shwe Dagon.”
Biff was beginning to put the pieces together. “I still don’t get it
loud and clear, but Uncle Charlie’s located at Unhao. That’s where I’m
going. And Uncle Charlie’s in Rangoon a lot, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Biff. He is.”
“But the ring—why would someone want me to have it? Do you suppose they
want me to take it with me?”
“That, my boy, is the question we’d all like to have the answer to,” Mr.
Brewster replied.
“Gosh. Maybe I shouldn’t take the ring with me.”
Tang spoke up quickly. “Oh, but I think you should. Its manner of
delivery hints of peril. But its message speaks of fortune and safety.”
Biff took the ring back. As he did so, a young, smiling Chinese entered
the store hurriedly.
“So sorry, revered elder cousin, so sorry to be late. I change quickly
and take over my duties.”
Tang smiled as the young Chinese hurried to the rear of the store. Biff
had noticed the young man was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt. On the
front of the shirt was the letter “K!” Biff turned and looked sharply
after him.
“Who was that, sir?” Biff inquired of Ling Tang.
“My young cousin—one of them,” Tang said. “He works afternoons for the
Kirby Ice Cream Co. He is much enthused about your game of soft ball. He
is of the team called the Kirby Koolers.”
“Well, thanks for your information, Tang. Guess we’d better be going,”
Mr. Brewster said.
“I’ll say hello to Uncle Charlie for you, Mr. Ling,” Biff said.
“That will be most kind of you,” the Chinese replied.
Both bowed to Ling Tang, and he returned their gesture with a deep bow
of his own.
Biff and his father were thoughtful as they walked to their parked car.
Something was building. No doubt about that. But what? What was the
answer to, or the connection between, the spying stranger, the ring, and
Biff’s coming visit to his Uncle Charlie? The answers to those questions
were not to be found that day.
At home, Mrs. Brewster’s first question was, “Biff, who ruined the
screen in your room?”
Biff looked helplessly at his father, who merely shrugged his shoulders.
“A rock, Mother. This morning, early. Fooling around....”
“I thought, young man, you were old enough to know better than to toss
rocks around carelessly.”
Biff heaved a sigh of relief. He was going to get out of this easily.
Neither he nor his father wanted to tell Mrs. Brewster the real reason
for the hole in the screen. They didn’t want to worry her.
“Now,” Mrs. Brewster said briskly, “we’ve lots to do today. We’ll have
no time in the morning. We’ll have to leave for the airport early. Now
here’s what I want you to do, Biff....”
On the morning of his departure, Biff again woke early. He could hear
noises throughout the house and sniffed at the friendly smells of
breakfast being prepared. Everybody was up. They were all going with him
to the airport. Biff looked at his watch. It was nearly seven by the
time he was dressed. In one hour and fifteen minutes he would be
air-borne, on his way to Chicago, the first leg in a journey that would
take him halfway around the world.
Breakfast was a funny kind of a meal that morning—not the food, but the
way the whole family acted. The twins, of course, kept up a steady,
excited chatter. Any trip to the airport made them bubble like a bottle
of pop. But Biff and his mother and father either all tried to talk at
the same time, or suddenly remained silent at the same time.
“Biff gets all the breaks,” Ted complained. “Don’t see why I can’t go,
too.”
“Because you’re too young, that’s why,” retorted his twin sister,
Monica. “You’re just eleven.”
“You are, too,” the younger boy shot back. “Way you act, anybody’d think
you were older’n me.”
“Your time will come, Ted,” Mr. Brewster said, acting as a peacemaker
between his youngest children. “When you’re five years older, like Biff,
the world will still be here. There’ll be plenty of chances for you to
spread your wings and fly.”
“Right,” said Ted emphatically. “And I’ll go by rocket.”
“But what about me? I’m a girl,” Monica wailed.
“Yes, Tom. Answer that one,” Martha Brewster said with a laugh. “Don’t
worry, Monica,” she continued, “we women will show these men a thing or
two.”
“Like what?” the girl said, pouting.
“Like how fast you can get ready. Right now. We have to leave for the
airport.”
As they drove into the busy terminal, Biff felt a lump in the pit of his
stomach. First signs of homesickness, he thought. It had happened
before. Biff always felt homesick at these last moments. But once he was
under way, the feeling left him. Except sometimes late at night, just
before he fell asleep.
This time, though, it was different. This was the first time Biff was
going to be all on his own. Before, his adventures had been shared with
his father. True, he’d be with his Uncle Charlie, but as nice a guy as
Uncle Charlie was, uncles weren’t the same as fathers.
Biff checked in and had his ticket cleared. At the gate, he ruffled his
brother’s hair, gave him a quick hug, and turned to Monica. He lifted
her off her feet and planted a big “smack” on her plump cheek.
Unashamedly, he embraced his mother in front of the crowded gate, then
turned to his father.
The two shook hands, and Mr. Brewster placed a hand on Biff’s shoulder.
“You have the ring in a safe place?” he asked softly.
Biff nodded his head and touched his side trouser pocket. He had
fastened the key chain to a longer, stronger chain which was attached to
his belt loop.
“I wouldn’t display it, Biff.”
Biff nodded. He felt tears coming to his eyes, but he was through the
gate and up the plane’s loading platform before anyone could see them.
Moments later, the plane was taxiing out to the runway for the take-off.
Biff, looking through the window, could see his family waving.
After the plane’s four engines had been warmed up and tested, the giant
airliner lurched forward, and in seconds was air-borne. First stop
Chicago. Change to a jetliner for San Francisco. Next stop Hawaii. Then
Tokyo, Hong Kong, and finally Rangoon.
Biff unfastened his seat belt when the lighted sign snapped off, and
looked about him. The plane was only half filled. He glanced to the
rear, and his heart started pounding. Seated in the last seat on the
plane’s starboard side were two Chinese. They returned Biff’s stare
without expression. One of them, Biff noticed, seemed to have but one
good eye. The other eye was nothing but a thin slit.