“There’s your trouble, Dave,” he announced twenty minutes later. “The decoder output is overdriving-putting out entirely too much voltage.”
“Sure am sorry, skipper,” Brogard replied, somewhat red-faced. “I’ll fix it right away.”
Tom reassured him, but inwardly he was worried that his enemies might have picked up some valuable information. But he was thankful that through Chow he had discovered what was going on!
“Good old Chow!” he thought. “This rates a reward.”
The next morning, when Tom returned to the plant, he delivered a package, gift wrapped, to
92 THE RACE TO THE MOON
Chow’s galley. “A little present to you for helping me discover that radio leak,”
he told the surprised cook.
Chow opened the package and took out a scarlet Western-style shirt embroidered with gold threads. “Great jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” the old chef gasped. “If that ain’t the most bee-yoo-tiful thing I ever laid eyes on!”
Gaudy shirts were Chow’s great weakness. With trembling ringers, he tried on his new prize. Then the stout, grizzled old cowpoke eyed the result, using a polished skillet as a mirror and preening himself like a fat peacock.
“By jingo, I could pass for a movie cowboy in this getup, if I do say so myself!” Chow declared. “Tom, I don’t know how to thank you. I’m plumb touched by your thoughtfulness.”
“Forget it, Chow.”
In a company jeep Tom drove to Enterprises main building. Outside the Swifts’ big double office, Miss Trent, their secretary, said, “Mr. Ames asked you to call him as soon as you came in.”
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