Bud collapsed on his stool, doubled over with
mirth.
"Sorry, old-timer," he gasped. "I just couldn't resist!"
"Okay, Buddy boy," Chow said darkly. "And mebbe I won't be able to
resist gettin' even one o' these days!" The cook stumped out of the
laboratory in his high-heeled cowboy boots, a picture of outraged
dignity.
"Better watch out, pal!" Tom warned with a grin. "Just remember: it's
never smart to bite the hand that feeds you!"
"I guess you're right," Bud agreed, wiping away the tears of laughter.
"I'll remember, just as long as Chow promises not to serve us any more
armadillo soup or rattlesnake salad!"
Chow's fondness for experimenting with weird dishes was a standing joke
around Enterprises.
The boys ate their meal hungrily. As they were finishing, Tom glanced at
the big clock on the wall. It was now well past eight o'clock.
"Wonder why Dad hasn't come to the lab," he remarked. "I'd better call
and find out if he's all right."
Tom picked up the telephone and asked the operator for the direct line
to the Swifts' home. His father answered.
"'Morning, Dad!" Tom greeted him. "I thought after your call last night,
you'd be over bright and early to see our visitor. He's already--"
"What are you talking about, son?" Mr. Swift broke in. "I didn't phone
you last night!"
CHAPTER XIII
DISASTER STRIKES
Tom was thunderstruck. "You didn't phone me? But, Dad, I got the
call--I definitely heard your voice!"
"That's impossible," Mr.
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