As soon as possible Sandy and Bud cut short the conversation and left
the yacht club. Unger's face wore an angry sneer as they walked out.
"What a creep!" Bud said, when he and Sandy were driving back in his red
convertible.
Meanwhile, in his private laboratory at Enterprises, Tom was somewhat
discouraged. He had tried several different experimental attacks on the
problem of an undetectable submarine. None had worked out successfully.
"I thought that idea of a sonar-wave baffle might lead somewhere," he
murmured, "but it looks as though I'm wrong."
Flopping down on a stool at his workbench, Tom cupped his chin in his
hands. He was frowning, deep in thought, as the pudgy figure of Chow
Winkler came into the laboratory.
"'Smatter, boss?" the cook inquired cheerfully. "Ain't your ole think
box workin' today?"
"Doesn't seem to be," Tom confessed.
"Give it time, son. Tomorrow's another day," Chow said philosophically.
"What you need is a haircut for the square dance."
Tom laughed in spite of himself. "Maybe you're right, Chow. Might help
me think better."
Tom got off the stool and stretched out the kinks in his legs. He
strolled outside with Chow, then scootered to the parking lot and hopped
into his sleek, silver sports car.
A moment later he was whizzing off in the direction of Shopton.
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