“And just what do you think this name is?” Hudson held his index finger beside one of the names.
“Oh, so sorry. I guess I no understand your talk.”
“Fat chance,” Hudson said angrily. “Now you just tell me where that boy is.”
Biff had made up his mind. He couldn’t be mistaken in this man of action.
“I think you’re looking for me, sir,” Biff said and placed his hand on Jack Hudson’s arm.
Hudson swung around. He looked Biff up and down, slowly, carefully, sizing him up, before answering.
“If I weren’t so glad to see you, I’d ask where the devil you’ve been.” Then, seeing Biff’s face fall, Hudson smiled, a warm, immediately friendly smile. “But the important thing is I’ve found you.”
“I guess it is mostly my fault that you’ve had trouble meeting me,” Biff confessed. “I had a little mixup with—” He cut his sentence short. Perhaps he had better wait until he got to know Jack Hudson better before revealing all the mysterious happenings that had taken place from that early hour in the morning four days ago, back in Indianapolis.
“Well, part of it’s my fault, too,” Jack said. “Or the weather’s. Coming in from Unhao, I ran into a terrific headwind. Should have allowed for it. These winds spring up all the time in these parts. I was late. But come on now, we’ve got to clear you with customs and get your gear.”
Jack Hudson, with a forcefulness sharp enough to cut any red tape, literally bulldozed Biff through a maze of inspections, checks, and rechecks.