Go Jump in the Pool (11 page)

“I have seen the figures in your bank statement,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “A dollar and fifty-eight cents over, isn’t it?”

“Nine hundred and one dollars and fifty-eight cents,” Bruno said happily. “Mr. and Mrs. Stratton are buying Rob Adams’s refrigerator. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Mr. Sturgeon leaned back. “The — uh — plenty more is what I have been wanting to discuss with you. Sit down, boys — no, not on the bench. The chairs will do.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “So far you have been extremely successful with your fund-raising. However, you must face the fact that most of the money is coming from the same pockets — those of our own students and staff. In the past week I have been receiving telephone calls and letters from many of the parents complaining that their sons are repeatedly sending home for more money. It simply will not do.”

“But, sir,” argued Bruno, “a lot of the money from the rummage sale came from outside the school. And there’s the contest prizes. And then there’s Miss Scrimmage’s.”

“Yes,” replied the Headmaster, “but the bulk of what you have came from the Macdonald Hall students. As for the contests, luck is a very fickle thing. You have been lucky, but you cannot seriously expect any more revenue from contests. The point that I am making is not open to argument, Walton. It is this: our own resources have been tapped and tapped again. I cannot allow it to go any further.”

“Does this mean we’re not allowed to raise any more money?” asked Boots anxiously. He saw himself packing for York Academy.

“Not exactly,” said the Headmaster. “But in future, any funds raised will have to come from outside sources.”

Bruno cleared his throat carefully. “As a matter of fact, sir, we just so happen to have two hundred dollars coming to us from an outside source.” From his shirt pocket he produced a lottery ticket and a crumpled newspaper clipping. “We matched the last four digits.”

Mr. Sturgeon’s eyes glared with cold disapproval. “You are well aware of my feelings concerning gambling,” he said. “I fail to recall giving my consent for the purchase of a lottery ticket. May I ask how you came by the ticket?”

“One of the girls from Miss Scrimmage’s bought it for us when they went into town,” Bruno confessed.

“And no doubt she sent it to you here by mail,” Mr. Sturgeon added sarcastically. “Let me see the ticket.” He examined it carefully. It was made out in the name of Donald McHall at the school’s address, and was indeed a two-hundred-dollar winner. “Why Donald McHall?” he asked finally.

“Well, Cathy — uh — the girl just put it down that way,” Bruno explained. “You know, Macdonald Hall — Donald McHall …”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” The Headmaster sighed. “Since the money belongs to the pool fund, I shall collect it this afternoon when I am in town.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Boots.

“Sir,” said Bruno, “I have an idea about how we can raise money from other sources. It’s fruit harvest time, and we could set up a rent-a-student service for the farmers around here. We could take a couple of weeks off school and —”

“That will do,” interrupted Mr. Sturgeon. “Your parents did not register you at Macdonald Hall to turn you into farm labourers.”

“Yes, sir,” chorused Bruno and Boots.

* * *

A dejected Bruno Walton sat on the small hill on Macdonald Hall’s front lawn and stared absently at the cars going by. There was no way, no way at all, that the school could have a pool now.

A figure approached and sat down beside him. “Bruno,” said Boots, “you’ve been sitting here for over an hour. There’s just no way. We gave it a try and it can’t be done. Maybe it’ll all work out.”

“And maybe it won’t!” Bruno growled. “And that’ll leave a lot of good Macdonald Hall students sitting in York Academy or some other rotten place. It’ll break up a lot of pretty good friendships too — like ours, for instance.”

“That’s what gets me!” Boots exclaimed. “Our school is better than York Academy, even without a pool.”

Bruno nodded. “It is, you know,” he agreed. “That’s why I just can’t stand to think of those turkeys lording it over us —” He stopped dead and sat up straight. “Our school is better than theirs. Boots,” he said with sudden new life, “look at all the cars that pass by here. Those people get to look at our beautiful school — for free!”

Boots laughed. “What are you going to do? Set up a tollbooth and charge them for the privilege?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s a wonderful idea!”

“Bruno, are you
crazy
?” Boots cried. “The Fish would never give permission for that!”

“We don’t have to ask him,” Bruno replied earnestly. “He’s already told us to go out and make money from other sources. The passing public is another source.”

Boots held his head. “Bruno, this time we’re going too far! If we got caught at this, we’d be lucky if York Academy would even have us!”

Bruno ignored him. “Come on!” he said excitedly. “We’re going to see Wilbur!”

They dashed across the campus in the direction of Dormitory 1, raced inside and knocked on Wilbur’s door. The big boy had been doing his homework.

“Wilbur, we need your help,” said Bruno, getting right to the point. “We need you to borrow two sawhorses out of the wood shop without telling Mr. Lautrec.”

“Why can’t I tell Mr. Lautrec?”

“Because,” explained Bruno, “he’ll want to know what you’re going to use them for and I don’t want to tell him.”

Wilbur, who was not very adventurous, turned pale. “But what if I get caught?”

“Don’t,” Bruno advised him. “Then you won’t have to worry about such things. Paint the sawhorses white and meet us down by the highway at nine o’clock tonight.” He turned to Boots. “Come on. We’ve got to go see Chris.”

Down the hall they ran into Chris Talbot, who had just returned from the library.

“Two signs,” said Bruno. “We need them for tonight at nine. White background, black lettering, about a metre by half a metre.”

“Saying?” Chris prompted.

“Stop. Pay Toll. 50¢.”

Chris stared at Bruno in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? You’re not going to stop cars and make them pay us a toll?”

“Oh, yes I am!” laughed Bruno Walton.

* * *

Mr. Sturgeon had every piece of identification he owned spread out on the counter.

“The way I see it, your name is Sturgeon, not McHall,” said the clerk.

“That is what I have been telling you,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “I am the Headmaster of Macdonald Hall. You see, there is no such person as Donald McHall.”

“Then why is the ticket made out to him?” the girl asked, eyeing Mr. Sturgeon suspiciously.

“It is simply a pseudonym for Macdonald Hall,” Mr. Sturgeon explained for at least the third time. “The ticket belongs to the students of Macdonald Hall, and I am acting as their agent to collect their money for them.”

“Are you sure?” the clerk asked dubiously.

“Young woman,” said Mr. Sturgeon icily, “I assure you that if I should ever attempt to defraud an agency of the government of Ontario, it would not be for the paltry sum of two hundred dollars. I should, as they say, go for the bundle.”

She frowned. “Are you sure Mr. McHall can’t come down to claim the money himself?”

“Positive,” said Mr. Sturgeon sadly.

“Well, since he seems to have given you his ticket, I guess it’ll be all right,” she said at last.

Mr. Sturgeon breathed a deep sigh of relief and cursed Bruno and Boots in his heart for putting him through this.

* * *

By half past nine, two gleaming white sawhorses stood blocking both the north- and southbound lanes of Highway 48, their signs proclaiming in both directions:
Stop. Pay Toll. 50¢
. Bruno and Boots were manning the northbound lane, and Wilbur and Chris the southbound. The tollbooth was ready for operation.

Boots, Chris and Wilbur were only there out of loyalty to Bruno. All three were absolutely terrified. Bruno, on the other hand, rubbed his hands with glee when he spied headlights coming along in his lane.

“Oh, boy! Our first customer.”

“It had better not be a police car,” called Chris from across the road. “I’m positive this is illegal!”

Boots, who had very sharp night vision, squinted at the car and went white to the ears. “It’s The Fish!”

Uncharacteristically, Bruno panicked. “Run for your life!” he cried and made a break for his own dormitory. Chris and Wilbur stood frozen, but Boots was hot on Bruno’s tail. They ran only a short way.

“Hold it! Hold everything!” Bruno gasped. “We can’t take off like this! We’ve got to go back and save Wilbur and Chris from The Fish!”

“Who’s going to save
us
?” demanded Boots as they trotted back towards the scene of the crime.

“Shut up and keep running,” Bruno tossed over his shoulder.

“Hide, Wilbur!” exclaimed Chris, unfrozen at last. The two boys took off towards Miss Scrimmage’s apple orchard, but not before the headlights of the approaching car had clearly illuminated Wilbur Hackenschleimer’s bulk clambering over the fence.

Mr. Sturgeon veered over to the soft shoulder of the road, got out of his car and surveyed the scene. He crossed the highway, eased himself gingerly over the wire fence and stepped into the shadow of the trees.

“Talbot — Hackenschleimer — come out this instant.”

Chris and Wilbur shuffled out from behind a row of trees and stood shamefaced and shaking before their Headmaster.

“You both have a lot of explaining to do,” Mr. Sturgeon said sternly, “but the first order of business is to remove that abomination from the highway. Let us now —”

He was interrupted by a piercing wail. Then Miss Scrimmage’s voice came over the public address system. “Intruder alert! Intruder alert! All girls to remain in their rooms. Do not be afraid. You are protected.”

There was a rustling sound in the underbrush behind Mr. Sturgeon.
Crack!
The Headmaster dropped to the ground. Over him, brandishing a softball bat, stood Cathy Burton.

“Oops!”

Bruno and Boots burst onto the scene. “Cathy, you clouted The Fish!” Boots exclaimed.

Bruno dropped to his knees beside his fallen Headmaster. “Sir! Sir, speak to me!”

Boom!

Mr. Sturgeon sat bolt upright. “Good Lord, she’s got her shotgun back! Flat on the ground! Everyone!”

Miss Scrimmage appeared in the orchard, carrying a flashlight in one hand and the shotgun in the other. The bright beam illuminated Mr. Sturgeon, Cathy and the four boys all lying on the ground.

“Mercy, I’ve killed them!” she cried, and fainted.

Diane Grant’s white face peered out from behind a nearby tree. “Cathy, is it safe to come out yet?” she whispered.

“Sir, are you sure you’re all right?” asked Bruno anxiously.

“Miss Scrimmage, wake up!” Cathy was begging over and over again. “No one is dead!”

Miss Scrimmage got shakily to her feet. Headmaster and Headmistress faced one another. Mr. Sturgeon was livid. “What do you
mean
by firing that weapon? You could have killed one of my boys!”

“How dare you shout at me, sir?” Miss Scrimmage replied, outraged. “You were prowling in my orchard! I could have you arrested for terrorizing a defenceless woman and her innocent girls!”

“Come along, boys.” Mr. Sturgeon summoned up what remained of his dignity. He herded the four boys out of the orchard, over the fence and onto the highway. There an appalling sight met his eyes. From both north and south, cars were lined up at the toll gate as far as the eye could see. Some of the drivers were beginning to get restless, and the occasional horn could be heard.

“Take those barriers down at once!” Mr. Sturgeon ordered, holding his head gingerly. The boys ran to remove the sawhorses which had backed up the traffic.

“Now,” the Headmaster said when they were back on their own grounds, “go to your rooms and remain there. I wish to see Walton and O’Neal at precisely eight o’clock tomorrow morning in my office. Talbot and Hackenschleimer will be dealt with later.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bruno. He turned dark anxious eyes on the Headmaster. “Sir, are you absolutely sure you’re all right? Maybe we’d better take you home.”

“Do as you are told!” Mr. Sturgeon roared with more anger than he had ever expressed to anyone.

* * *

“We’ve finally done it, Bruno,” said Boots miserably, holding his head in his hands as he sat on his bed. “We’ve gotten into trouble before, but this time nothing can keep us from being expelled. I’m doomed! My folks will kill me! Even York Academy is beginning to look good!”

“Boots,” said Bruno calmly, “we’ve been through a heck of a lot together. If we ever needed each other for support, it’s now, so let’s not argue or go to pieces. We haven’t been expelled yet.”

“We might as well give up,” said Boots. “The Fish will never let us get away with this. I told you it was crazy. How do you get such ideas?”

“It was your idea,” Bruno defended himself. “Remember? You said —”

“You know I wasn’t serious!” Boots lay back in surrender. “We may as well go to sleep,” he said. “Whatever happens I guess just plain happens.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Bruno. “Never worry about what you can’t avoid. Wake me at quarter to eight. Goodnight.”

* * *

“Here are the groceries, Mildred,” said Mr. Sturgeon, placing a bag on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, thank you, dear. I needed some — William! Whatever happened to you?” Her husband was a rumpled, bedraggled sight — and there was a lump on his head.

“Oh, nothing much,” Mr. Sturgeon said bitterly. “I was only stopped at an illegal toll gate set up on the road by those boys you’re so proud of for their school spirit; then I was physically assaulted with a baseball bat by one of those well-bred young ladies belonging to the barracuda who, incidentally, opened fire on me — the police have returned her shotgun, can you imagine that? No one is safe!” He opened the closet to put away his coat. “Other than that, nothing happened to me!”

From the closet shelf a box slipped down and struck him on his already tender head. The lid flipped open, a soft object popped out and a recorded voice said, “Hi there! My name is Jack!”