The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun by Paul Gallico Read Free Book Online Page A

completely phony expression and voice used by adults when they are telling to their young a thumping lie which they are convinced will be believed.
    He said, “Well, you see, kid, I recognized him. I’ve seen him before. He was a—pickpocket.”
    Julian clapped his hand to his jacket where the Bubble Gun design reposed. “Would he have picked my pocket?”
    “Maybe he would have. He was a rat.”
    Julian said, “Why didn’t you call the police?”
    It stumped Marshall for a moment. This made his voice even phonier when he explained, “Well, now you see, sonny, that would have just held everything up and made a lot of trouble for everybody. And anyway, he didn’t have his hand in anybody’s pocket so I just scared the . . .” He pulled himself up in time. “. . . the pickpocket.”
    Julian considered this. Well maybe, but it didn’t entirely make sense. Gresham hadn’t looked at all like a pickpocket ought to. For an instant that same sense of dark foreboding which he had felt during that moment when Marshall had frightened Gresham away returned to Julian. Something else had been involved from which Marshall had protected him. His doubts caused him to look into Marshall’s face half questioningly, to be greeted with the man’s dazzling, frank and open smile as Marshall said, “See?”
    Julian reached into his pocket and produced the folded paper of his diagram and looking at it with satisfaction said, “He didn’t get it, did he?”
    Marshall was grimly aware of the double meaning as he replied, “That’s right. He didn’t get it.” Then, indicating the paper, “What’s that?”
    Julian replied, “My invention. After I g-g-get a patent for it I’m g-g-going to make a lot of m-m-money with it.”
    The word “money” startled Marshall for a moment and a slight change of expression came over his countenance. He was about to reach for the paper but thought better of it. He said, “What are you talking about? Let’s have a look at it.”
    Julian did not comply but said, “I g-g-got to work on it some more.”
    Marshall said carelessly, “Okay, so don’t,” which, of course, produced an immediate unfolding of the sheet of paper revealing the diagram of the Bubble Gun. Glancing at it Marshall was surprised and even more surprised that he should be so. He studied it for a moment and then asked, “You did that?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “What’s wrong with it?”
    Julian replied, “I dunno. Sometimes when you pull the trigger it shoots a lot of little b-b-bubbles instead of a b-b-big one. I’ve g-g-got to figure it out.”
    Marshall took the paper out of the boy’s fingers and examined it more closely including Julian’s name and address at the bottom.
    He said, “It looks all right to me,” and then added, “Why don’t you ask him?” and he nodded his head towards the front of the bus.
    Julian asked, “Who?”
    Marshall replied, “That guy up there. The one who spilled his papers all over the floor. I had a look at ’em. That was ordnance.”
    “What’s ordnance?”
    “Guns and stuff. He’s probably army in civvies. He could tell you.”
    “Do you think he would?”
    “You could try.” Marshall studied Julian for a moment with considerably more interest. “Where are your folks?”
    Julian replied, “Home. In San Diego.”
    Marshall queried, “Do they know where you are?”
    Julian shook his head in negation. “. . . but I left a note saying I was g-g-going.”
    Marshall’s curiosity was driving him past the mild interest stage. He said, “It doesn’t make sense. What’s the plot, kid. Come on, give.”
    “My d-d-dad thinks I’m a sissy and no g-g-good. When I showed him my invention and said I was going to m-m-make a million dollars he laughed at me.”
    Marshall asked, “What do you mean, he laughed at you?”
    “He said to stop bothering him and to come b-b-back after I had made my m-m-million dollars. That’s why I’m g-g-going to Washington.”
    It was making less and