Chuba spoke softly, rapidly to the old man. The old one’s reply was a single sentence. Chuba translated:
“Tonight when the clock makes the twelve strikes.”
“That’s all? Didn’t give you any details?”
“That’s all Ancient One tell Chuba. I think that all grandson tell the Ancient One.”
Never had Biff known a day to pass so slowly. The suspense became unbearable. Charlie Keene tried to calm Biff down.
“I think you’d be better off if you’d try to rest. Pacing back and forth isn’t going to make the time go by any quicker. Get Chuba to teach you the Oriental art of patience.”
“Rest? Who can rest at a time like this?” Biff replied. Then he was ashamed at the angry tone in his voice. “I’m sorry, Uncle Charlie. I didn’t mean to—”
“I understand, Biff. But you may need all your strength when midnight comes. Try stretching out for a little while.”
Biff took his uncle’s advice. His mind was in a turmoil as he lay on the hard wooden bench, his cupped hands beneath his head serving for a pillow. Sleep would never come, he told himself. The next thing he knew, he was being gently shaken. Uncle Charlie was bending over him, grinning.
“Almost midnight, Biff. Better come alive.”