“Swell!” Tom’s eyes lighted up. “Let’s go, pals. I want to give that machine a real workout! Why, for Pete’s sake! Chow!”
“Whoa! Slow down, buckaroos!” Chow’s foghorn voice boomed from the doorway. He stumped into the room on his high-heeled boots. “Brand my prairie pork chops, what’s goin’ on here?” He took off his ten-gallon hat and scratched his bald head.
As the cook waited for an answer, the three youths stared at him in sheer dazzlement. Chow, who had a weakness for fancy Western shirts, had outdone himself.
“Quick! My sunglasses!” Bud gasped, shielding his eyes.
Chow’s shirt was of a brilliant orange hue, and decorated in yellow and red.
Over the shirt was a beaded buckskin vest.
”I reckoned this here fancy li’l number would catch your eye, but never mind tryin’ to butter me up!” said Chow, who sincerely believed his shirts were admired by everyone. “What I want to know is, who spread the hogwash about Tom bein’
all laid up with ee-lectric burns?”
“It’s true, old-timer,” said Tom. “I did get a bit scorched yesterday.”
Chow looked at his young boss more closely. His face showed quick concern when he saw the reddened patches of skin left from yesterday’s accident.
DANGER ZONE 33
“The doctor just took off the dressings,” Tom explained. “Whatever he put on really did the trick-everything healed up fine.”
“I was sure worried plumb stiff!” the cook admitted. “Soon as I heard it, I rassled up some o’ your favorite grub an’ hopped the first plane comin’ to the Citadel. But I’m sure glad you’re better now.”
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