Seeing Double
The cablegram was short and to the point.
MAY I BORROW MY FAVORITE NEPHEW FOR A COUPLE OF WEEKS STOP URGENT.
It was signed, “Charles Keene,” and had been sent from Willemstad,
Curaçao, in the Netherlands Antilles.
Biff Brewster, the favorite nephew referred to in the cablegram, looked
at his parents hopefully.
“Well, Martha, what do you think?” Thomas Brewster asked Biff’s mother,
as the three of them stood in Mr. Brewster’s study.
“Oh dear! I really don’t know what to say.” A frown spread over Mrs.
Brewster’s pleasant, friendly face, drawing her arched eyebrows closer
together. “It seems to me that Biff is away from home so much of the
time.”
“I know, dear. But you must admit that we have encouraged these trips. I
still feel that travel is as important to a boy’s education as his
formal schooling,” Tom Brewster replied to his wife’s mild protest.
“And Uncle Charlie says it will only be for a couple of weeks,” Biff put
in. “My spring vacation starts next week. I wouldn’t be missing much
school—only a day or two at the most.”
Biff looked from his mother’s face to his father’s. He wanted so much to
go. In his mind’s eye, he was already seeing the sparkling waters of the
Caribbean Sea, dotted with palm-studded islands, long white beaches, and
coral reefs.
The Windward Islands, the Leeward Islands, Martinique, Aruba, Barbados,
Guadeloupe, St. Kitts—all these colorful, romantic, exciting names raced
through the boy’s head.
“How’s your Spanish these days, son?” Tom Brewster asked.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’m scoring well in it at school, and of course I
picked up a lot more Spanish when we were in Mexico.”
Biff was beginning to feel easier. His father’s question was an
indication that one-half of his parents was considering favorably Uncle
Charlie’s cabled request.
“How ’bout it, Mom?” Biff pressed the opening his father had given him.
“You know Uncle Charlie and I always get along swell. We’re a good
team.”
Charles Keene was Mrs. Brewster’s brother.
“Charlie’s so reckless, though,” Mrs. Brewster continued in a voice
registering protest. “If I remember correctly, you and he barely made it
out of China before getting into serious trouble.”
Biff had no answer to this statement. It was all too true. He and Uncle
Charlie had been flown out of China—they had slipped across the border
illegally—to Rangoon in Burma and then on to the British Crown Colony of
Hong Kong, with Chinese Red agents breathing down their necks.
“Any idea what your brother is doing in the Caribbean?” Mr. Brewster
asked his wife.
Biff’s mother shook her head. “Not any more than you have, Tom. Have you
heard from your uncle, Biff?”
“Only one letter since we got chased out of China,” the boy replied.
“That came about a month after I got back home. All he said was that
things were too hot for him to operate in the Orient for a while.”
“He is still with the firm of Explorations Unlimited, isn’t he?” Mr.
Brewster asked.
“Oh, yes. Uncle Charlie said the company was negotiating a contract that
would have him operating in this hemisphere. He didn’t say what kind of
operation it was, though.”
“It must be tied in with his wanting you to come to Curaçao, son.”
“Looks that way, Dad. What about it, Mom?” Biff looked hopefully at his
mother. She didn’t reply for a few moments. Then she said, “Well, I
suppose—”
Mrs. Brewster never finished her sentence. The youngest members of the
Brewster family burst into the study.
“Mom! Dad! It’s a cablegram!” eleven-year-old Ted Brewster shouted,
waving an envelope over his head.
“Yes! Another one,” Monica, Ted’s twin sister, chimed in.
The twins were five years younger than Biff. Their ambition was
sometime, someday to travel “a-_lone_,” as they emphatically put it.
They listened goggle-eyed to tales of the adventures Biff and his father
or Biff and Uncle Charlie had shared. On several occasions the twins had
gone with their parents and brother to the romantic places where these
adventures had taken place. Mrs. Brewster, always present when the twins
were voyaging, had taken great care to see that her two youngest were
not exposed to the dangers that had accompanied Biff’s far-away
adventures. Ted and Monica could hardly wait until they were old enough
to take part in them themselves.
“It’s for you this time, Biff,” Ted said. Excitement shone on his young
face. His eyes sparkled.
“I’ll wager I can tell you who it’s from,” Mr. Brewster said, smiling.
“Uncle Charlie! Uncle Charlie!” Monica pealed, like a gay bell.
Biff ripped open the envelope. The room became silent.
“It’s from Uncle Charlie all right,” Biff said. Then he read: “YOUR
PASSAGE BOOKED SOUTHERN AIRLINES FLIGHT ONE TWO NINE TO MIAMI SUNDAY
MARCH TWELVE. RE-PLANE MIAMI FOR CURAÇAO CARIB AIRWAYS FLIGHT TWO NINE
SIX. BE SEEING YOU. LOVE TO ALL.”
Biff handed the cablegram to his father and looked at his mother.
“I must say my brother takes things pretty much for granted,” Mrs.
Brewster said, laughing.
“That’s Charlie for you,” Tom Brewster said. “When he goes into action,
he moves fast.”
“He surely does, Dad, whether it’s against Chinese bandits or sending
cablegrams,” Biff agreed.
“One cable this morning. A second this afternoon. Well, I guess we’d
better be making up our minds, Martha. What do you say?”
“Can we all go?” Ted wanted to know.
“Oh, yes, I’d love to go to the West Indies,” Monica pleaded.
“I’m afraid it will be just Biff this time,” their father said.
“Providing, of course,” he added hurriedly, “your mother approves. Well,
Martha?”
Martha Brewster shrugged her shoulders and smiled. She was still torn.
But she had great confidence in her son’s ability to take care of
himself. He had proved this time and time again. And Charles was her
favorite brother, reckless though he was.
“All right, Biff darling. I might as well give in now as later. I know
you and your father won’t give me a moment’s peace until I do.”
Mrs. Brewster’s statement was met with cheers led by Ted and Monica.
Biff crossed the room and put an arm around his mother’s shoulders. She
pressed her head against her strong son’s chest.
The conference in the Brewster home in Indianapolis, Indiana, came to an
end.
Sunday morning at ten o’clock found the Brewster family at the
Indianapolis airport. Flight 129, southbound for Miami, had already been
called. The last hasty farewells were said, and ten minutes later the
plane speeding Biff southward became a mere speck in the sky to his
mother and father and the twins.
The plane zooming Biff to another adventure landed at the Miami airport
in the late afternoon. Coming in over the city of fabulous hotels,
America’s playground, Biff could see the lingering rays of the setting
sun slanting out over the bouncing waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
From Carib Airways, Biff learned that the flight which was to take him
on to Curaçao was not scheduled to depart until midnight. After a dinner
of delicious stone crabs, Biff wandered up and down Lincoln Road, the
famed shopping center in Miami Beach, gazing into the windows of the
shops which lined the streets.
He left Lincoln Road and swung on to Collins Avenue. One hotel after
another, each in turn seeming more luxurious than its predecessor, lined
the east side of the avenue, between the street and the white, sandy
beach.
The night air was warm and gentle in contrast to the cold, blustery
March winds Biff had left behind him in Indianapolis.
Biff returned to the airport shortly after eleven, reclaimed his
baggage, which he had checked, and waited for his flight to Curaçao to
be called.
The call came just ten minutes before midnight:
“_Carib Airways announces the departure of Flight two nine six, for
Port-au-Prince, Haiti, Willemstad, Curaçao, and Fort-de-France,
Martinique. Now loading at Gate Nine. All aboard, please._”
Biff joined the line which was moving slowly through Gate 9. He looked
carefully about him, as he always did, spotting faces that he might run
into again. He had learned in the past that it was wise to remember as
much about one’s fellow passengers as possible. No telling when such
knowledge might come in handy. Besides, he found the faces of traveling
people interesting. On many long rides, he had amused himself by trying
to guess where they had come from, where they were going, and why.
The line shuffled slowly forward. Flight 296 was filled. There would be
no seats for the hopeful standbys.
Biff had checked his heavier bag through earlier, when he had presented
his ticket. Now he carried only a small, light dispatch case.
Accidentally, as the person directly in front of him stopped suddenly,
Biff’s dispatch case swung forward, striking the person on the calf of
one leg.
“Pardon me,” Biff said.
The person turned around. Startled, Biff stopped quickly. He even backed
up a step in his amazement.
“Am I seeing things?” Biff asked himself, giving his head a shake and
blinking. “Am I asleep? It can’t be. It just can’t be.”
The person Biff stared at returned his stare. The same astonishment
spread over the face of the boy he had bumped.
Biff’s own mirror at home couldn’t have reflected his image better. He
might have been looking at himself!