The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun Read Online Free PDF Page B

ears returned to his memory. What kind of a crazy deal was this, a kid going to Washington to patent a gun that shot bubbles? And where did this fat fag fit into all of this? It wasn’t any of his business. Nevertheless he sat up and couldn’t help sharpening his listening faculties.
    Julian quietly folded up his diagram and returned it to his left-hand jacket pocket and then automatically patted the bulge of his right pocket.
    Gresham asked, “What’s your name, sonny?”
    “Julian.”
    “Julian what?”
    “Julian.”
    Gresham smiled indulgently. “I mean, what’s your last name?”
    Julian did not reply and simply remained silent obeying the first pricking of the subconscious reflex of self-preservation. When his parents discovered he was gone they would undoubtedly call the police and if he, Julian, went around telling everybody his name they’d be able to find him.
    His companion broke the silence by saying, “My name is Gresham; Clyde Gresham, but you can call me Clyde, eh, Julian?”
    Julian remained silent but across the aisle Marshall shifted uneasily in response to the deep-seated instinct of an animal alerting to something repulsive in another.
    Gresham asked, “Where’s your mommy?”
    “Home.”
    “And your daddy?”
    “Home.”
    “Where’s home?”
    Julian nodded with his head in the direction from which they had come and said, “Back there,” and then added, “San Diego,” though he thought the man ought to have known since they had both got on the bus there.
    “I see. Isn’t anybody with you?”
    Marshall could not resist looking across in time to see Julian simply shake his head in negation while Gresham asked, “You mean you’re going all the way to Washington by yourself?”
    Marshall watched Julian again nod his head in assent. Gresham was bent towards Julian and had his back half turned so that he was unaware of the light of mounting anger in Marshall’s eyes.
    “My, you’re quite a little man, aren’t you? I must say!”
    Gresham’s voice was so full of admiration that Julian looked up at him again and into the dimpled face with its smooth skin and warm, friendly eyes. Praise and understanding from a grown-up was a rare thing.
    Gresham succeeded in keeping the tremor of excitement out of his voice. “Well, now, it just happens I’m going a good part of the way. Would you like me to look after you?”
    Julian was enveloped by the bland smile and saw nothing to intimidate him. He was bright enough to realize that all that lay ahead of him was unfamiliar and that being “looked after” might have its uses, particularly since there could be no question of this stranger having any authority over him and so he replied briefly, “Okay.”
    “Splendid,” said Gresham, “Then we’re friends. You see, I have no little boy of my own,” and he slid an arm about Julian’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
    Julian reacted to this as he did to all adults not of his immediate family who seemed unable to be in contact with children without wanting to touch them, pat them on the head or take them on to their laps. He didn’t like it but then this was a part of the child’s world, that when they did it he kept quiet and suffered it while making plans to get away as quickly as possible. These thoughts led to an unconscious wriggle and Gresham removed his arm.
    The hard knot of anger forming inside Frank Marshall had its physical reflection in the balling of his two hands into hard, tight fists.
    Looking out of the window Julian saw that the dun-coloured lonely country had given way to a few green fields, some outlying barns, a railroad siding and then clapboard houses and adobe dwellings indicating the outskirts of a town.
    The driver’s voice came over the interior communication loudspeaker, “Folks, we’re coming into Yuma, Arizona. Thirty minutes stop. Anybody wants can get some breakfast here.”
    The houses increased in numbers and soon the highway became the main