THE GREAT AUTHOR’S hair still had a touch of color, though by now most of his tangled mane was light gray and well on its way to white. The strands that still held the deep red of his youth were made lighter by the swirl of his cigar smoke. His eyes twinkled beneath the stray, meandering edges of his extremely bushy eyebrows.
“We’re not gonna have any problems here, are we?” Twain asked as he casually wiggled what little was left of the cigar in his hand. “’Cause if we are,” he added with zero concern, “I might just have to light myself up another one or two of these little devils. All things in moderation, of course . . . including moderation.”
“No, sir,” Jack said to him. “No problem at—”
Mattie cut in to try and help. “Yes, Mr. Twain,” she assured him before quickly making a mess of things. “I mean, no, I mean . . . yes, there won’t be any problem. We were only trying to . . . well . . . it’s kind of a really long story.”
“I’m very familiar with those, young lady.” Twain puffed on his still-smoldering stub. “Though I tend to prefer short stories that lead to long conversations. Preferably with total strangers, which, correct me if I’m wrong, the four of you are. That’s an ill we can easily remedy, I suspect.”
He extended his hand to Jack, seemingly unconcerned that four such total strangers were standing in his private stateroom.
“Mark Twain,” he introduced himself.
“Jack Babbitt, Mr. Twain, sir.”
The two of them shook hands.
The smoke from Twain’s cigar found its way into Ernie’s nose. “Ernie . . .” he coughed and struggled as he and the great author shook hands as well. “Ernie Samuels, sir. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Under the circumstances, I’m sure.” Twain smiled as he turned to Mattie.
“Matilda McGillin, Mr. Twain, sir,” she gave her name and then commenced with an out-of-the-blue, more-than-polite curtsy. “I’ve read everything you’ve written. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, which, we kinda thought . . . well, never mind. The Prince and the Pauper. Oh, and there’s the one about that frog in that one county. The . . . the . . .”
Mattie winced as she lost her train of thought. Until the great author kindly bailed her out.
“I think you might be referencing ‘The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.’ Not to worry, miss, you got further than most by just having read it.” Twain chomped on his cigar before turning his attention to the last of the intruders. “And whom have we here?” he asked.
Chief? Dad? Mom? Gigi? Guess whose hand I’m about to shake?
None of these words came out, thankfully. Instead, Henry introduced himself with a reserved “Henry Babbitt, Mr. Twain.”
The great writer didn’t offer his hand right away, eyeing Henry closer than the rest. He tilted his head toward Jack and sent a glance his way. “You two brothers?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir,” Jack replied. “Just a coincidence.”
“Ah,” Twain said as he finally turned to shake hands with Henry. “Seems we have a healthy supply of those right now. Along with an unnecessary propensity to address me by the word ‘sir.’”
He lowered the cigar into the brimming ashtray before adding, “The largest of these coincidences being the fact that apparently we’ve all been booked into this very same particular stateroom.”
Twain pulled out a new cigar from his inner vest pocket and bit off the end.
“That is quite a coincidence, don’t you agree?” he inquired of the room. “Unless, of course, there may be another story as to why the four of you are here?”
He spit out the tobacco stub, more than content to wait, but not without a dash of humor first. “Might as well tell the truth,” he said with a wink. “I’ve long said that if you do that, you’ll never have to remember anything.”
Henry cleared his throat. “We, uh . . . well, we all came here from New York, Mr. Twain, sir,” he said before remembering the legendary author’s instructions. “I mean just . . . Mr. Twain.”
“Much better.” Twain nodded with approval, striking a match and lighting his next smoke. “Even though the proper stating of my name really represents just a start to whatever it is you’re plannin’ on sayin’ to me. Oh, and please don’t take offense to this, but how did a quartet of miscreants get all the way to Missouri from New York?” He took his first pull from the new cigar.
Mattie politely jumped in. “Well, Mr. Twain, we aren’t really miscreants. We actually did kinda pay the boiler room workers once we got on board and, well, your door wasn’t locked,” she jabbered, “and we weren’t planning to take anything anyway, as I’m sure you can tell, because we already would have, and then we heard footsteps, so . . . I guess that’s maybe a long way of saying ‘miscreants’ might not be the best choice of words.”
Ernie jabbed her in the side, but Twain had already allowed himself a hint of a wry grin.
“Miss McGillin, I do stand corrected,” he said, cocking an appreciative eyebrow in her direction. “Even though I do pride myself on being a fairly adequate wordsmith.” He paused again. “Still didn’t answer my question, though. It’d be a shame if that turned into a habit.”
The banjos on the main deck broke into a new song, the skilled players behind the quick-pickin’ tune showing why they’d been invited as tonight’s prime entertainment.
Down here, though, not surprisingly, it looked as if Mattie had barely noticed. “Have you ever heard of Mr. Skavenger’s Hunt, Mr. Twain?” she asked him.
“Mr. Hunter S. Skavenger?” Twain inquired with a curious look. “Is that the Skavenger whom you’re referencing, miss?”
“It is.” She nodded. “We found a clue in New York a few days ago . . . and, well, it said the next clue might be here. Here on the Natchez riverboat.”
For the first time since he’d walked into his room, Mark Twain looked speechless—something history books had taught Henry was a rare occurrence.
“One of Mr. Skavenger’s clues? To his latest great hunt?” Twain said with an incredulous look. “In this room? My room? Ha! Ha, HAAA!” he laughed with disbelief.
Henry could see Mattie’s lower lip quiver just a bit. He could tell the manner in which Twain laughed had made it all sound ridiculous, even though he probably didn’t mean it that way.
Noticing Mattie’s expression as well, the author shifted his tone in a hurry. “Ohhh, no, no, no. Okay, okay now.” Twain raised his hands in apology. “Tell you what, darlin’, you go right ahead and take a look at whatever you want in here. In fact, all four of you can. I’m as much a sucker for a great adventure as anyone.”
He gave her a supportive, hopeful look, which seemed to settle her down a little. Jack and Ernie promptly began looking around the stateroom, while Henry turned back to the desk.
It’s gotta be this. I mean, look at it. A first edition of Huck Finn? Feels totally Skavenger-esque.
Instead of immediately joining the search, Mattie showed Mr. Twain the beer glass from New York.
“This is why we came here, sir,” she told him with gathering composure. “The clue we found. It’s on the bottom. Go ahead, take a look.”
Twain put on his reading glasses and held the empty glass aloft, studying it with a scrunched nose under an equally scrunched brow. It took all of maybe five seconds before his expression suddenly relaxed and he leaned back with a belly laugh.
“Natchez? Two fathoms deep? Ha HAAAAA! Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head and peered over his glasses toward her. “And trust me, this is good laughter, Miss McGillin. Maybe I should take a gander around this stateroom too!”
Mattie returned the smile and the two of them headed over to join Henry, who was still closely studying the unspoiled, new edition of Huck Finn.
Twain put an encouraging hand on the young hunter’s shoulder and whispered right in his ear, “I think this is where I would’ve started too, had I not broken into—oh, wait, scratch that—I mean, had I not simply entered an unlocked room.”
Twain made sure Mattie saw the wink he’d just sent her way as Henry quickly flipped to page thirty-six.
“Ohh, I like your thinkin’ here, son.” The great author seemed to understand what he had in mind. “I do, however, have a fairly strong working knowledge of this particular page, having pondered and scratched on it for more hours than I care to remember. Not sure where any of it might fit into Mr. Skavenger’s latest quest.”
Henry gave the page a look anyway.
Yeah, guess I do see your point.
There was no illustration on the page, only words that started with: “Well, I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss Watson, on account of my clothes . . .”
Henry kept on reading until he reached the very last sentence on page thirty-six. Then he looked up with a sigh and without a turn of the page.
“Nothing,” he declared with disappointment, fanning through the rest of the pages as Jack and Ernie joined them at the side of the desk.
“How ’bout you? Anything?” Mattie asked the two of them. Both shook their heads.
Twain put his remaining free hand on Mattie’s shoulder, his teeth more than up to the task of holding the cigar.
“Tell you what,” he told all four of them. “You’ve still got yourselves a good bit of time before we get back to dock. Riddle says you’ve got till midnight, so I’d keep on lookin’, that’s what I’d do. See if there might be another thirty-six somewhere else on board. Might want to be discreet, however, on the off chance you actually don’t have passenger tickets.”
“Nah, we don’t,” Jack admitted. “They let us hide out for a few hours in the boiler room and get cleaned up a little.”
“Well, not to diminish their offer, but it mighta been even more neighborly if they’d let you clean up a little more,” Twain replied as only Twain could. His nose crinkled, but his twinkling eyes told them he wasn’t the least bit serious. He walked them to the door of the stateroom, his head wreathed in cigar smoke.
“If I think of anything, I’ll head down to the boiler to find you,” he promised. “And, if you’d like to just bandy an idea back and forth, I’ll be right here. All right?”
“Thank you, Mr. Twain.” Mattie was disappointed, but she held out her hand. “It was an honor for all of us to meet you.”
“You as well, young miss,” he replied, more than happy to take it. Each of the boys followed suit, before he closed the door with one last nod and a pleasant smile.
The foursome stood there and stared at the bronze 36 on the door. A wisp of white cigar smoke slowly rose to the corridor ceiling as a feeling of dejection began to settle over them.
“If we don’t find anything before the night’s over . . .” Ernie quietly said under his breath, not needing to finish the thought.
Henry could tell right away, though, he would have been better off not even starting the thought—with one person at least.
“Yeah, Ern, we know what happens if we don’t find anything!” Jack shot back with a frustrated voice. “Thanks for reminding us.”
“He didn’t mean anything, Jack!” Mattie spoke up. “We’re still gonna find it. It’s on this boat somewhere, I know it is.”
Jack now turned his anger squarely on her. “Before midnight? We’re gonna find whatever it is we need to find before midnight?” He nearly spit out the words. “All right, let’s do that, Mattie. Let’s find the answer to this clue we traveled across how many states to find? Was it five? Six? Before midnight, remember. ’Cause y’know somethin’? What else do we have to do? What else do you, or any of the rest of us, have to do? ’Cept go back home and let everyone keep telling us we’ll never amount to nuthin’ more than a hill of beans.”
Mattie didn’t say anything for a second. Her lip quivered again, only this time it looked to be with boiling rage.
“Why would you say that, Jack?!” she started in. “Why would you say that about me, about you, about all of us?!”
“She’s right, pal,” Ernie said flatly. “You’ve got no . . .”
Mattie shoved Jack right in the chest. Hard.
“You think I don’t know all that?” She went ahead and gave him a second rough push. “You think I don’t know what happens if midnight comes and we end up finding nothing! Lemme tell you somethin’, I know exactly what happens.” Another shove, and then another, Jack patiently holding up his hands as he weathered the storm.
“We go BACK to BEING NOTHING, that’s what! Nothing!” Mattie’s voice broke as her eyes welled with tears of anger and failure. “We’ll always be NOTHING!”
The last shove pushed Jack right into Henry, who barely budged because he’d yet to let his eyes stray from the front of Twain’s stateroom door.
From the number thirty-six.
He’d overheard every word of Mattie’s high tide of rage, but he hadn’t responded because he was too busy figuring out what was bothering him.
Without even a word to any of them, he reached up and knocked.
It’s in there. It can’t be anywhere else.
“Henry?” Mattie asked as she brushed away an angry tear and fixed Jack with a brutally hard glare.
Henry knocked again, ignoring her for the moment.
Ernie spoke up from behind him. “What is it, pal? You forget somethin’?”
Before Henry could answer, the great author opened the stateroom door. A tumbler of whiskey had taken up residence in his hand next to the latest cigar.
“Back so soon, Mr. Babbitt?” Twain inquired.
Henry nodded and politely asked, “Mr. Twain. Sir. Would it be okay if I looked in your book again?”
Before the question was even finished, the sound of a fresh set of footsteps echoed from the closest set of stairs. Mattie, Jack, and Ernie snapped their heads around to look, but Henry’s eyes remained fixed on the man standing in the doorway in front of him.
“I just need one minute, that’s all. I promise,” Henry said as the footsteps grew louder, somehow sounding more ominous than the banjo-seeking steps from earlier.
This time someone really was coming. Maybe Grace. Maybe Grace and the Dark Men. Whoever it was would be turning the far corner any second.
I don’t care. I’m not leaving till I check one more time.
The footsteps stopped before making the turn. Whoever was there had decided to stay out of sight, and even Twain—standing just inside his room—could hear a match being scratched to life. He pulled the door open, quickly ushering all of them inside.
By the time he’d closed it, Henry was already over at the desk again. Twain had to hold back a chuckle as he and the others all surrounded him.
“Well, son,” Mr. Twain said, resting both palms on the desk as Henry whipped through the pages again. “I respect a dramatic moment as much as the next man, but good Lord in Heaven, what should I be lookin’ for here?”
Something, something, something. Here on thirty—
Henry stopped on the thirty-sixth page, just as he had minutes earlier. And just as he’d seen the first time around, the thirty-sixth page was the very first page of chapter three.
Okay, start over again. Take your time.
“‘Well,’” Henry read aloud to everyone. “‘I got a good going-over in the morning from Old Miss Watson.’”
His voice fell silent as he stopped, his eyes darting back and forth, searching through each sentence. “It’s here, I saw it, I know I did,” he said out loud, shaking his head.
“Saw what?” Mattie asked him.
Henry didn’t answer. Instead he was reading each word his finger was now tracking. Left-to-right-and-down. Left-to-right-and-down.
Okay, Chief, little help here. What should I be looking for? What would you be looking for?
His eyes went back to Twain’s words again.
“Good going-over. Miss Watson.” Nope, not it. Not there. “‘Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it.’” Okay, that’s prob’ly nothing. It was right around this spot, though. Come on, keep going. “‘She told me to pray every day and whatever I asked for . . .’” Wait. Wait, hold on. “‘Whatever I asked for . . . I would get it,’” Henry whispered under his breath, his eyes sparking as he repeated the words again—though not as quietly this time. “‘Whatever I asked for . . . I would . . . get it.’”
Henry turned his head and saw a twinkle in the great author’s eyes, matched only by the spark in Mattie’s as she stood next to him.
“It can’t be that easy,” he said to her, then glanced up at the man who wrote the words. “Can it?”
“Go ahead, Henry! Go on!” Mattie nodded. Ernie and Jack did the same right behind her. He looked back at the book, double-checking to be completely certain before clearing his throat.
“Mr. Twain,” he asked, hoping his wording was correct. “Do you have the next clue in Mr. Skavenger’s Hunt? And if you do, may we please have it?”
Respecting a dramatic moment as much as the next man, Mark Twain slowly put down his cigar, paused for a good many seconds, then reached into his pocket . . .
. . . and pulled out a brilliant yellow envelope. Which he then handed to Henry.
“I do. And you may,” the great author replied with a proud smile.
The four young searchers gazed at the envelope. Twain used the moment to retrieve his still-smoldering cigar.
“I was getting a tad concerned you’d overlooked the words that were right there in front of you.” He chuckled. “Words I had written specifically to help my good friend, Mr. Hunter S. Skavenger.”
The quartet of hunters stood there in front of him, stunned into momentary silence. Well, most of them anyway.
“You know Skavenger?” Henry asked.
“For as many years as I’ve tried to quit smokin’,” he replied, “which is more than a few now. When I gave him my first manuscript of this here book, he asked if I’d be open to the possibility of conspiring on his upcoming quest. As you might imagine, I was more than happy to say yes.”
Henry looked at the envelope. He dipped his finger into the upper fold to open it—
“No, no, no! Not yet!” Twain stopped him. “That’s for you and the four other owners of these envelopes to do on your own. I’m not supposed to watch anyone open it either. Rules being rules. I usually say life’s short, break the rules, but I did make a promise to ol’ Hunter boy.”
The declaration that four other yellow envelopes had already been given out caught Henry’s attention, along with one other person in the room.
“What do you mean? Four other owners?” Jack wanted to know.
Skavenger’s good friend smiled. “You don’t understand, do you?” he asked. Nor would they, apparently, until such time as he was done relighting his struggling cigar. Once he was apparently satisfied in that regard, he nodded toward the envelope.
“There are five of those,” Twain carefully intoned. “Five and only five. Which means there are only five of you who now have the chance to do what no one’s been able to do these past two years.”
He paused to spit out a stray speck of tobacco, before uttering the astounding words: “To solve Skavenger’s great mystery.”
Henry couldn’t speak. None of them could. Aside from Jack once again.
“And this is the last one? The last one to be claimed?” He peeled his eyes from the yellow, almost-glowing, envelope—obviously thinking about what Grace had mentioned just that morning. That Doubt was already heading toward where he knew the next clue would be found.
Twain looked as if he knew the question would be coming.
With a half nod and a slow blink, he answered, “Yes, son, and that’s all I can say. Though I am also instructed to give you this, which I urge you to handle with exceptional care.”
Twain handed Jack a much different envelope. “Enough money for the four of you to go wherever you decide to go, which the other four envelope holders have received as well.” Jack inspected the envelope reverently. “Do choose carefully, though. Hunter tells me if you make a mistake on this particular riddle, good chance it’ll spell the end of the road.”
The great author then looked at Mattie once more. “Oh, and Miss McGillin?” he added. “Congratulations on finding one of only ten clean glasses at the Jennings Establishment, placed there by Mr. Skavenger himself that night. Hence the lack of traffic here on the Natchez.”
Twain now found himself looking at four equally stunned faces as he reached for a pen and flipped the pages of his novel back to the very front. He scribbled a message, then placed his pen in a nearby inkwell and gently slid the book to Henry. The twelve-year-old looked down at the inscription in awe:
To Henry—Good luck as your adventures continue! Your friend, Mark Twain
“Hope you like it.” Twain shrugged, before adding with a note of sadness, “The critics have been vicious with this one, but I always feel the public’s the only critic whose opinion’s worth anything.”
“The public will love it,” Henry tried reassuring him. “Readers’ll be reading it forever.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, son,” Twain replied with a smile. “We need more readers out there. That’s the other thing I sometimes say: the man who doesn’t read has no advantage over the man who can’t.”
Bearing the gruff, curmudgeonly look Henry had seen in countless history books, Twain ushered them out for a second time, earnestly wishing the young hunters the very best of luck.
The door had barely closed before Henry began to open the envelope, only to be stopped by Jack’s hand thumping hard onto his shoulder. This time, though, it wasn’t to grab him by the collar. No, this time it was for something much different.
“You did good, Babbitt.” Jack smiled at him. “The smarter Babbitt of the two, I mean.”
It was as deep as he’d ever dipped into what Henry knew was a shallow well of compliments. Jack then followed with a burst of startlingly loud laughter.
“Did you hear what he said in there?! Did you?!” He leaned his head back and yelled at the ceiling, “Five envelopes! ONLY FIVE! WoooooHOOOO! We could win this entire hu—”
“Jack, Jack, Jack, no, no, no,” Ernie tried to calm him, even though he looked just as excited himself. “We don’t need anybody hearin’ usssssss, like our friend Grace. We gotta get outta here!”
“Ernie’s right,” Mattie said, trying to subdue her joyful laugh as well. “I think we should open it in the boiler room. Better yet, when we get off at the dock. But for now . . .”
She suddenly wrapped her arms around Henry in a bear hug.
“Henry, you did it!” Mattie yelled with delight as she squeezed him tightly—long enough, thankfully, that she didn’t see him blush.
“Yeah, yeah, beautiful.” Ernie exhaled, clearly worried he’d never be able to herd them downstairs. “Can we get outta here before the Dark Men start collecting yellow envelopes? In case they already don’t have one of their own?”
“Yes, good idea.” Mattie broke away from Henry, just as they heard the lead banjo player up top announce:
“ON BEHALF OF THE FINE CREW OF THE RIVERBOAT NATCHEZ, THANK YOU ALL! AND MAY YOU CONTINUE TO HAVE AN EXCEPTIONAL NIGHT!”
The steady slap of the giant rear paddles slowed, signaling their imminent arrival dockside. The riverboat’s steam horn gave a piercing blast, which may as well have been heralding the foursome’s triumphant discovery to one and all.
Jack, Ernie, and Mattie broke into a run down the hallway. But Henry stayed behind, still marveling at what he held between his two hands.
“And sometimes . . .” a familiar voice suddenly echoed in his head.
“Henry?” Mattie turned and walked back to him. Ernie and Jack followed. “Henry, come on, we need to get off the boat,” she reminded him with an urgent tone in her voice.
But Henry was too busy listening to his father again—hearing the words that had come back to him on more than one occasion during the hunt.
“And sometimes,” the voice continued, “if we don’t act upon it right now, in this very minute, it’ll be too late. Always remember that, son . . . all right? Never let an extraordinary moment wait.”
Henry slipped a finger beneath the envelope’s flap. “I’m gonna open it now,” he said with a tone that told them not to argue.
“You sure?” Jack looked over his shoulder, making certain no one was coming. Hearing the envelope getting torn open made him turn right back around. Four sets of anxious eyes watched as Henry gently removed a delicate, small slip of paper. The feather-light parchment was almost gold on the edges, with graceful black lettering.
The nature of the lettering, however, instantly drew a sigh of disappointment from Mattie.
“Oh no,” she said, scratching her forehead. “This’ll slow us down a little.”
Ernie had taken out his notepad, but didn’t even bother taking notes after seeing the first few words:
Une vision trés haute à l’oeil, complètement et impressionnant en tant que tout continent ou toute mer. Trouvez-moi sur un voyage de neuf jours. Paris. New York. Le visionnaire et la vision.
“Anybody know anyone who can speak French?” Jack asked them.
“Oui.” Henry beamed. “I know a little. Actually, more than a little.”
Actually, more like a lot. You want Français? I can give you beaucoup de Français!
The time he’d spent inside the school library while the rest of his classmates were at recess had been devoted to the language. His mother had insisted. No recess—for safety reasons, of course—and plenty of French. While Henry had grumbled to his mom about the extra classes then, right now he was glad he’d taken them.
“What does it say?!” the three other kids asked him in anxious harmony.
Henry frowned slightly, recognizing this wasn’t basic French. He’d always had better luck, though, when he slowed down and read the words deliberately; something that wouldn’t be easy to do at this moment, with his three friends watching. Anticipation and all.
“A towering vision . . . to the eye,” he haltingly translated. “Full and . . . full and . . .”
He let out a frustrated breath and stopped, unsure, seeing that Ernie was now writing down each of his words. He tried again.
“Full and . . . IMPRESSIVE, that’s it. I mean, that’s the word in the clue, not the clue itself. Ernie, got it?”
“Got it.”
Henry dug back in. “Full and impressive as any . . . as any . . . as any continent or sea! Now we’re talkin’!”
“Well, you are,” Jack noted. “The three of us are just listening. Oh, and can we get outta this hallway? Somebody’s bound to turn one of these corners any minute now.”
They ducked into an alcove where they wouldn’t be seen, Henry studying the clue as the others dragged him in.
The rest of the passage proved easier. “Find me on a nine-day journey. Paris. New York,” Henry said and then looked up. “The visionary and the vision.”
A trio of blank faces looked back at him.
“Find who?” Mattie scrunched her forehead again as she asked. “The vision? Or the visionary? I don’t understand. Are we supposed to go back to New York or go to Paris?”
“Oh. Paris. That’ll be easy,” Ernie scoffed. “That’ll be a cinch for four ragamuffins like us. How are we supposed to do that?”
“I think he wants us to find both,” Henry ventured. “Not both New York and Paris, but both the vision and the visionary.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s Paris, how long does that trip even take?” Jack already sounded worried.
“A few years ago it took months,” Mattie told him. “Now it’s only a week, maybe a little longer, but not much.”
“Twain’s right. If we go to Paris, we better be really right,” Jack shot back. “If we’re wrong, we lose.”
Henry went back to the start of the message again, just as the steam whistle on the Natchez sounded with three short pops. A deep-voiced porter shouted out instructions for disembarkment, even though a good number of passengers would be staying on board—not to mention coming downstairs to their staterooms.
Henry shook his head, eyes moving from left to right over the now familiar French text.
This one might not be easy.
“It’s a towering vision,” he decided to move ahead a few words. “They’ve got towering things in both New York and Paris, with visionaries who made ’em happen.”
“Okay, so?” Jack was now pacing in the dimly lit alcove—or rather, still pacing.
“What’s the tallest building in New York right now?” Henry asked. “It’s prob’ly the Empire State Building, right?”
“The Empire what?” Mattie responded, just as the whistle sounded again up top, long and steady this time.
Great. The Empire State Building doesn’t even exist yet.
“I know Mr. Pulitzer’s been writin’ in all his papers about building something,” Ernie tried to help. “Says it’ll be the highest building in the whole city once it’s done. Twenty stories!”
It can’t be New York, Henry decided—though he was just as puzzled as the rest of them.
It’s gotta be France. Has to be. A vision that’s full and impressive.
“Hold on a minute.” He held up a hand, his eyes darting back to the first words of the clue.
A towering vision. A towering vision to the eye. Full and . . .
His pendulum-swinging eyes slammed to a stop.
“A towering vision to the eye, full . . .” He spoke the words out loud, but so softly that they hadn’t heard any of it.
“What did you say, Henry?” Mattie asked.
“Tower,” he repeated, now with a steadily growing smile. “Eye. Full.”
One of the big E’s! Riggins would love this. Einstein, Edison, and . . .
The rest of the clue—everything—tumbled into place. The vision and the visionary.
The vision had been constructed long before the Empire State Building or even Mr. Pulitzer’s future twenty-story behemoth back in New York.
And the visionary was now a complete no-brainer.
“We’re going to Paris,” Henry told them with confidence. “Let’s get off this boat, we’ve got a bigger one to catch.”