"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 076 - The Flaming Falcons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

including more than a mere strawstack. He walked to the top of a small hill on which the strawstack
stood, and looked.

A cultivated field was before him. It was little more than handkerchief size. About an acre, inclosed by
the electrified fence.

Something grew in the field. Some vegetable, weed or plant, that was unlike anything Hobo Jones had
seen before. The stuff resembled cactus somewhat, only it was yellowish, about the color of a frogтАЩs
stomach, and it couldnтАЩt be conventional cactus because it had no thorns.

"Maybe itтАЩs good to eat," Hobo Jones mused, and he ambled forward.

The yellow vegetable was as tough as could be, but he finally got one off the plant, set his teeth in it, then
found it necessary to take out his pocket knife and scrape his teeth. The interior of the mysterious fruit
was a whitish-yellow gummy substance that had the tenacity of glue, and also about the same taste as
would be expected of glue made out of a very long dead horse.

"Ugh! Phew!" said Hobo Jones. "Yah-h-h!"

He turned around, and there stood a naked man.



THERE wasnтАЩt any swimming hole close. The surrounding country was as dry as a fishтАЩs nightmare. It
was no logical place for a man who was sans apparel.

This named man was a long brown collection of sinew and bones, and distinctly not lovely. He had eyes
as black as ink-bottle corks. Remarkably enough, his teeth were also black instead of white.

"Uh," said Hobo Jones. "ErтАФhello."

The brown naked man smiled, showing all his black teeth. He bent over, picked up a handful of the sand
which composed most of the soil hereabouts.

"Wooley-gooley-guh,"
he saidтАФor so it soundedтАФand pointed at the fistful of sand.
He obviously wanted Hobo Jones to look at the sand. He walked over, wearing a big, sociable smile, so
Hobo Jones, just to be pleasant, bent over and looked.

Next instant, the sand had been slapped into his eyes. And he was flat on his back. And a wild cat was
on his chest.

Hobo Jones had been in fights before, particularly of late, but in these scraps he had just stood on his feet
and popped the other fellow one on the jaw, then popped him one again if he got up, which he usually
didnтАЩt. This was different. The brown man was as tough as leather shoestring. He moved like chain
lightning. Every place he took hold of Hobo Jones it hurt. The brown man was master of some kind of
heathen science. He also had surprise on his side.

Loud howls of pain and rage came from Hobo Jones. He drove his fists like pistons. Some of the blows
landed, making his opponent give forth piping bleats of agony. They rolled over and over. Hobo Jones