Biff and Chuba made their way along a narrow, dirt street, lined with small houses made of thatch and mud. Men, women, and children, all poorly dressed, moved back and forth, at times filling the street until it was difficult for the boys to make their way.
They reached the end of the street, a distance of not much more than a quarter of a mile. Chuba cut off to his left toward a house standing just inside the gray wall, but somewhat removed from the other houses.
“The house of my uncle,” Chuba said, pointing.
Biff was glad to leave the street. It was littered with trash, and the smells were sickening.
“When we are inside the house of my uncle, you must not say a single word,” Chuba warned. “I do not want even him to know you are America boy. I tell him you can hear but cannot talk. I tell him we on our way to visit the older brother of my father, he who lives on the banks of the Yangtze River.”
The house was roughly made of earthen bricks and thatched with wheat straw. A small man stood at the entrance to the house. The doorway was closed only by a drooping cloth, sewn together from several grain bags.
Chuba bowed low as he approached his uncle. They spoke together rapidly. Biff, of course, could not understand a single word spoken. Chuba turned to him.
“My uncle welcomes us. He says we may sleep here, and he will feed us. Come, we go in.”
The floor of the house was earth, worn smooth and packed hard by the feet of three generations of the uncle’s family. A Chinese woman looked at the boys as they entered, but spoke no word of greeting. She was the uncle’s wife. Two children, each younger and smaller than Chuba, stared at the boys, their eyes round with wonder at seeing strangers.
Chuba’s uncle spoke to his wife. Minutes later she brought both the boys a small portion of rice, served in an earthen saucer. The rice had little or no flavor for Biff. But it was hot, and he ate every grain.