Crash! A trayful of dishes and silver went flying in all directions as Chow collided with a waiter. Chow staggered back from the impact, tripped over a diner’s foot, and fell flat onto the floor.
“Norn d’un nom!” the waiter wailed in anguish.
“Haw, haw, haw!” The burly man roared with glee. “That’s what happens when you don’t watch where you’re going, fat boy!”
“Now jest a cotton-pickin’ minute, you smart aleck!” Chow struggled to his feet, with salad dressing oozing down over his head and face. “If it’s trouble you’re lookin’ for-”
The mustached man suddenly rose from his chair and exclaimed, “Shut up and wipe off your face, you loudmouthed range bum!”
“Range bum!” Roaring with rage, Chow mopped the salad dressing from his eyes and tried to focus on his enemy. “Take off them glasses, an’ I’ll show you who’s a range bum, mister!”
At that moment Tom and Bud were speeding into downtown Shopton.
Arriving at the Trianon, they parked at the curb and hurried inside. The restaurant was in an uproar. Most of the diners had left their tables and were crowding around
28 AQUATOMIC TRACKER
the far end of the room. Loud grunts and exclamations could be heard.
“That’s the stuff, baldy!” one of the onlookers called out. “You’ve got him now!”
“Good grief, what’s going on?” Tom gasped. “Does he mean Chow?”
The two boys squirmed through the crowd, then stopped in amazement.
Chow and a mustached man were seated at a table, sleeves rolled up and engaged in an Indian wrestling contest! Both their faces were beaded with perspiration.