Night had fallen. The only light came from the fire in the open oven set in one wall of the house.
The uncle spoke again to Chuba, and the boy nodded and motioned Biff to follow. The uncle took them into a small room which was to be their sleeping room. There were only three rooms in the house. Biff looked about him. The room was bare except for one low bench standing in the center. They would sleep that night on the dirt floor. And sleep they did, as if they were in the most comfortable beds ever made. At dawn, with another small bowl of rice to warm their stomachs, the boys were on their way again.
The boys crossed the Plateau of Yunnan and reached Chaochiang on the Yangtze River. This was the small town where the older brother of Chuba’s father lived. From this uncle, Chuba borrowed a crudely built small boat, held together with wire and wooden pegs. Two cumbersome, double-bladed oars would be power. The boat was to be left at Sundhiango, a village about one hundred miles west of Chungking. Chuba’s uncle would get it on his next trip to the large city.
The Yangtze River, rising out of the mountains of Tibet on its 3,500 mile course to the Yellow Sea, flows swiftly in the western part of China. The ugly, yellow water roars through chasms, with lofty crags on either side rising 300 feet high. The little boat, Biff in the bow, Chuba in the stern, raced along like a small chip of wood. It was fun at first after the tiring days of fighting their way through the jungle on foot. They sped through gorges, putting mile after mile behind them. As they neared Sundhiango, the river widened. Boiling white water told Biff that they were getting into shallower water. A roar from ahead told him they were approaching rapids.
They shot the first three rapids without trouble, then entered a broad, smooth stretch of water where they drifted slowly with the current. Rounding a sharp bend, Biff again heard the roar of white water. This time the roar was louder than before. The small craft suddenly picked up speed. The boat plunged into the swirling, dashing water and was tossed about as if it were a twig. Time and again, it seemed the boat would crash on a huge boulder. Each time the current swirled it around just in time to prevent a smashup.
Looking ahead, Biff could see the end of the rapid. The round swell of the water was a warning—falls ahead! There must be a drop of several feet, Biff figured. He couldn’t see directly beyond the falls. All that was visible was a broad body of water beyond—smooth, quiet, wide enough to be a small lake.
There was nothing to do but pray that the boat would get safely over the falls and into the calm water beyond.
“Hold on, Chuba!” Biff called. Oars were useless now.
The boat was caught up in a natural spillway, a narrow, fast-moving path of water which shot over the falls and plunged downward. The boat shot over the spillway. For moments, it seemed to hang in mid-air. Then it hit the water below with a bone-jarring smack.
“We made it!” Biff cried jubilantly, turning to look back at Chuba. Chuba had disappeared. He had been thrown out of the boat as it leaped over the falls. Biff spotted his friend’s head in the water twenty feet this side of the falls.