"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 128 - The Goblins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

“I've got to copy this stuff,” he said, “or be in the market for another job.”

“Go right ahead,” said the pretty lawyer.

“Stick around, wonderful,” Park requested. “I want to hear more of this strange stuff you've been telling
me.”

The messages were still more stuff for Clark Savage, Jr., from the war department. More people were
respectfully and tactfully, but absolutely, denying Clark Savage, Jr., the privilege of getting into a plane
and personally chasing the enemy.

Park was a good operator who could copy, mark off messages, get blanks ready, and also think about
subjects not related to telegraphy, all while he was copying a message.

When he had the wire cleared, he sent an O. K., then closed the key and asked, “Does the will say
anything about the little green man?”
“What?” asked Attorney Martha Colby blankly.

“Man. Small. Green. Kind of a gremlin.”

Attorney Colby blinked at Park. “Maybe you do need a guardian.”

“That,” said Park, “is a snide crack.”

“What do you mean, green man?” asked the young woman. “What's a gremlin?”

“You should read a newspaper or a magazine sometime,” said Park. “A gremlin is a little he-witch, kind
of an imp. They walk around on airplanes when they are in the air, and they make the cylinders miss, or
the compass go haywire, or things like that.”

Attorney Colby became frosty. “Are you implying I am a gremlin? Well, that's just fine!”

“Hold on there, wonderful!” said Park hastily. “I didn't imply anything of the kind, and you know it.”

“Then what were you talking about?”

“Never mind, skip it,” said Park. “I'm sorry I mentioned it. And you aren't a gremlin, I hope not.”

Park glanced at the clock. The office was supposed to close at five, and it was five now. This was one
afternoon, Park resolved, when the place was going to close on time.

He put the by-pass plug in the wire box so he wouldn't hear the sounder if they called him again. He got
his hat.

“This guardian talk of yours interests me unusually,” he informed the young woman. “How about us
taking ourselves hither to the nearest drugstore soda fountain, and you talk to me while we slug ourselves
with a couple of malteds. Or does your taste run to something stronger?”

“Malteds make you fat,” she informed him. “I'll take a limeade. But it is a good idea.”