“Where did these come from?” Tom asked, puzzled.
Chow grinned. “I picked ‘em up from the general store in town.”
“Charles Winkler!” Tom exclaimed. “You old rascal! Why, you didn’t know until last night that I wanted one.”
Tom knew that Chow, a loyal horseman, never drove a jeep. And pintos were not part of the Sky Queen’s equipment.
“How’d you get to town?” Tom asked.
“Why, brand the sunrise,” said the cook, “an early-morning walk does wonders for the appetite!”
“I know how you cowboys love to hike!” scoffed Tom, remembering it was a ten-mile walk to town. “Come on, Chow, give. Where did you get them?”
Chow said, with a twinkle in his eyes, that the ten-128 TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT ROBOT
gallon hats were for Tom, Mr. Swift, and Bud. “You kin put them there dees-torters in as many as you like.” But he steadfastly refused to divulge his secret.
They all thanked him and Tom added, “I built two midget distorters during the night. Dad, I’ll install one in your hat and the other in mine. I guess Bud won’t need one to hunt for Indian treasure.”
Bud had promised the girls that he would help them explore Purple Mesa.
After breakfast the boys rolled the Skeeter out of the hangar. Tom helped his sister and Phyl aboard while Bud checked the fuel supply of the squat helicopter.
Through the Skeeter’s wide windows, Tom could see Sandy loading her camera.
Phyl, her sketching pad under her arm, waved happily in anticipation of the day’s fun.
Bud climbed into the pilot’s seat. Four jet-tipped rotor blades began to rotate slowly at first, then whirled at tremendous speed. The ship rose slowly through the cloud of sand it had stirred up on the desert floor.