a gold hunt. But he was careful to avoid answering any direct questions that Serbot put to him.

It was late afternoon when Serbot indicated a great, dark swirl of water that merged with the muddy Amazon, marking the mouth of another huge tributary.

“The black water of the Rio Negro,” defined Serbot. “From here it is only ten miles up to Manaus.”

Soon, the plane landed at the Manaus airport, and a few minutes later, Biff was being welcomed by his father, a tall, rugged man with dark hair and tanned, square-jawed face, an older counterpart of Biff himself, except for the boy’s blond hair. But when Biff looked around for Mr. Serbot, hoping to introduce him to Mr. Brewster, he found to his surprise that his companion of the plane trip had already gone.

Biff and his dad talked about the family and everything at home while they were picking up Biff’s luggage. Mr. Brewster then led the way to a jeep that he had parked outside the airport. Before they started their drive into the city, Biff drew the sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it to his father with the comment:

“Dad, this is from Mr. Stannart. He told me to guard it carefully, that it is very important.”

Mr. Brewster tore open the envelope, and Biff watched his expression change as he read the letter. His lips set tightly above his firm jaw, Mr. Brewster thrust the letter into his own pocket; then he started the jeep. Keeping a sharp eye along the rough road, he asked:

“Did Mr. Stannart mention what was in the letter?”

“In a way, he did,” rejoined Biff. “He said we were supposed to be going with a rubber-hunting expedition, but that actually we would be looking for gold—”

“You didn’t mention that to anyone, did you?” interrupted Mr. Brewster anxiously. “I mean, while you were on the plane?”

“I only talked to a man named Mr. Serbot,” returned Biff, “and I even played dumb when he suggested that you take me on a safari. He said we could make arrangements at the Hotel Amazonas.”

Biff saw his father’s taut expression change to one of relief. Mr. Brewster spurted the jeep over a watery stretch of road with the comment:

“These jeeps have to be real puddle jumpers. You never know how deep some of the mud holes are.”

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