"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.