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.
"Chow! You look marvelous!" Sandy said.
The cook blushed with pleasure. "You gals look purty enough to charm a hoot owl right off'n his perch!" he shot back. Both Phyl and Sandy were wearing gay calico dresses that had full swirling skirts.