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"It's your show, Belle," Tom assented, and very obligingly rode to the other side of the stable to unsaddle his horse, and grinned to himself when the sound of wailing and pleading and promises of the "I'll-never-do-it-again" variety came to his ears. Belle's lickings were distinguished chiefly by their uproar. "Belle wallops 'em like brandin' calves," Tom used to chuckle.
"I'll see to it that no one wallops you or jumps on you," promised Frank. "You keep right with me till you learn the ropes and unlearn all the bitterness those relations of yours have put into you. I'm going to have you and me paired off for the same room, if I can." "Say," choked up Bob at this, "any fellow who would do that, after seeing how measly mean I can be, is a brick. Just wait.
Rick pulled his mask away to hear a little better and heard a loudspeaker, rebroadcasting something. "... reports no aircraft within range limits. We are now at thirty-one minutes and counting. On my mark the time will be zero minus thirty exactly." There was only the crackle of the loudspeaker. The set was tuned in on the Wallops Island command frequency, Rick realized.
The computer did the rest." "Then Lefty Camillion and his friends have been intercepting data from our rocket launchings at Wallops," Scotty said unbelievingly. "But why? How could Lefty use data like that? It's all straight, unclassified scientific and meteorological stuff. He's no scientist." Steve grinned. "I doubt that he even knows what the data are.
In summary, this is a very elegant little assembly of receiver, data recorder, transmitter, and command circuits." "Fine. McDevitt, what about the rocket?" The man from Wallops Island shrugged. "Nothing very complex about it. It's a simple solid-fuel rocket with star grain, fired by a squib that is commanded from the ground. A squib is simply an igniter to start the fuel burning.
Cricket bore off her charge to the kitchen, where she fed and soothed it with such good effect that, when she came back, half an hour later, the little black cat cuddled down on her arm, purring like a teakettle in spite of its wounded neck. "Isn't it a dear?" she said, admiringly. "I think grandma will let me keep it. We haven't any cat in the house since Wallops died, and I love them."
Love one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward. But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins.
"Bud, I ain't sayin'," replied Herky, with his mouth full of meat. "Considerin' all points, howsoever, I'm thinkin' them wallops was distributed very proper." They bandied such talk between them, and occasionally Bill chimed in with a joke. Greaser ate in morose silence. There must have been something on his mind. Buell took very little dinner, and appeared to be in pain.
As far as I have observed, SARK'S device, like many others he has put forward, has nothing in it. WALLOPS couldn't be slower in going round than is ARPACHSHAD. The only time he ever displays any animation is when he discovers some fresh disaster. When the worst comes he positively beams over it. Difficult to say whether he enjoys himself more in an over-wet season, or in one of drought.
Again, a half-crazed sansculotte had won a girl and in token of triumph was spinning her body horizontally around like a top, upheld by the open palm of his huge right arm. But what might be this comic figure, quite unpartnered knocked and shoved from human pillar to human post winning the deep curses of the dancers, and their hearty wallops when not o'er-busied with Terpsichore?
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