He did so, and a short time later Chow wheeled a food cart into the laboratory.  As he dished out man-sized helpings of ham and eggs, the cook kept a wary eye on Exman.  Tom was putting the robot through a few more lively maneuvers.

“A good meal’d calm down Ole Think Box,” Chow observed grumpily.  “But what do you feed that there kind o’ contraption?”

“Well, not gum, that’s for sure!” Bud teased.  After tasting his first forkful of food, he gasped, “And none of this ham!”

Jumping up from his lab stool, Bud began whirling, dancing around, and flapping his arms as if he were burning up.

“Help!  Help!” he yelled.  “Chow’s poisoned me—­just like he did Exman!”

Chow’s leathery old face paled under its desert tan.  “Great snakes, Tom!” the Texan gulped.  “Have I really pizened him?  Maybe we should call Doc Simpson!”

Doc was the medic in charge of the Enterprises infirmary.

Tom was unable to keep a straight face.  “Better call someone with a strait jacket—­or a butterfly net!” he said, quaking with laughter.  “I’m afraid he’s just pulling your leg, Chow!”

Chow’s jaw clamped shut like a bear trap and he glared at the pirouetting young flier.  Bud collapsed on his stool, doubled over with mirth.

“Sorry, old-timer,” he gasped.  “I just couldn’t resist!”

“Okay, Buddy boy,” Chow said darkly.  “And mebbe I won’t be able to resist gettin’ even one o’ these days!” The cook stumped out of the laboratory in his high-heeled cowboy boots, a picture of outraged dignity.

“Better watch out, pal!” Tom warned with a grin.  “Just remember:  it’s never smart to bite the hand that feeds you!”

“I guess you’re right,” Bud agreed, wiping away the tears of laughter.  “I’ll remember, just as long as Chow promises not to serve us any more armadillo soup or rattlesnake salad!”

Chow’s fondness for experimenting with weird dishes was a standing joke around Enterprises.

The boys ate their meal hungrily.  As they were finishing, Tom glanced at the big clock on the wall.  It was now well past eight o’clock.

“Wonder why Dad hasn’t come to the lab,” he remarked.  “I’d better call and find out if he’s all right.”

Tom picked up the telephone and asked the operator for the direct line to the Swifts’ home.  His father answered.

“’Morning, Dad!” Tom greeted him.  “I thought after your call last night, you’d be over bright and early to see our visitor.  He’s already—­”

“What are you talking about, son?” Mr. Swift broke in.  “I didn’t phone you last night!”

CHAPTER XIII

DISASTER STRIKES

Tom was thunderstruck.  “You didn’t phone me?  But, Dad, I got the call—­I definitely heard your voice!”

“That’s impossible,” Mr. Swift insisted.  “Believe me, son, I slept soundly from the time I turned in until a little while ago.”