Tom assembled a mass of electronic equipment and phoned various
Enterprises' departments for other items. Bud helped to collect them,
and the boys trucked the paraphernalia out to a hangar to be loaded
aboard a Whirling Duck. Then they scootered back to the lab for a quick
shower and change.
Twenty minutes later, in sport jackets, checked shirts, and slacks, the
two chums hopped into Bud's red convertible. They picked up Sandy and
Phyl and drove a little way into the country for dinner at a huge old
farmhouse restaurant.
"Well, the evening's off to a good start," Sandy said with a happy laugh
as they headed back along the lakeshore road to the yacht club.
"Hope I didn't put away too much fried chicken to sashay properly at the
square dance," Bud remarked.
Tom chuckled. "Don't worry, pal. You always untangle those feet of yours
when the fiddle strikes up!"
The blazing lights of the yacht club were reflected in the blue-black
mirror of the boat basin. Bud parked and they went inside.
"Welcome, buckaroos!" Chow Winkler greeted them with an enthusiastic
bellow as they entered the dance room.
The old cowpoke was splendidly dressed in a maroon satin shirt and white
whipcord breeches tucked into shiny new boots. But instead of his usual
sombrero, a chef's cap was perched on his head.
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