Go Jump in the Pool (13 page)

A pencil in Mr. Sturgeon’s hand suddenly snapped in two.

“The parents of some of
our
boys, you say? Visiting you? Anderson? Jones?
O’Neal?
Well, I’m sure the parents will do what is best for their sons. Parents have every right to choose the school that their children will attend … Yes, thank you for calling, Hartley, but we at Macdonald Hall have much more important things to do — like maintaining our high academic standing. We don’t want to slip to second place just for the sake of a little splashing around. Good-bye, Hartley.”

He slammed the receiver down hard and clicked on his intercom. “Mrs. Davis, send the messenger for Bruno Walton and Melvin O’Neal.”

The truth of what had been going on was suddenly crystal clear to him. Here were these boys trying to save Macdonald Hall, trying to keep from losing their friends to York Academy, trying the only way they knew how to stay together, and he, their Headmaster, had accused them of the low motive of jealousy. Certainly there was jealousy present, but there was also something much, much more. He felt a twinge of shame.

It took more than half an hour for the office messenger to locate Bruno and Boots, as they were off picking up litter in a remote corner of the campus.

“You sent for us, sir?” said Bruno as they entered the office.

“Yes. You have taken your punishment well and have performed your duties satisfactorily. I have decided to lift your punishment as of now.”

“The essay too?” Bruno asked hopefully.

“I still want the essay,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “I want it to be clear to you that what you almost did might have adversely affected your whole lives.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” chorused Bruno and Boots gratefully.

“Is it ever good to be on this side of the counter!” exclaimed Bruno, enjoying his dinner.

Boots nodded. “The last three days were pure torture. All we have to do now is get the fraud essays finished.”

“Yes,” Bruno agreed. “And we’d better hurry because we’ve got to figure out a way to raise the rest of the money.”

Boots pounded a fist on the table. “Has your mind finally jumped its one track?” he shouted. “We are never going to raise all that money!”

“Money?” said a voice at the next table. “Did someone mention money?”

Bruno and Boots turned to see George Wexford-Smyth III regarding them with great interest.

“We’ve been trying to raise money for a pool,” Bruno told him. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. It’s vulgar.”

George picked up his yogurt and came over to join them. “Money, especially in vast quantities, is never vulgar,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

“Where have
you
been?” asked Boots. “Don’t you know about the swimming pool?” George looked mystified. “The budget won’t allow us to build a pool, and we’re in danger of losing students to York Academy because of it. That’s why we’ve been trying to raise fifty thousand dollars — so we can beat those turkeys in the next swim meet and keep our fathers happy.”

“You mean,” said George, “all the horrid things that have been going on around the campus were for money?”

Bruno and Boots nodded.

“Well, that makes it different,” declared George. “How much did you raise?”

“About fifteen thousand,” said Bruno.

“Hmmm. And you need fifty thousand. That shouldn’t be difficult.”

“What?”

“My dear Bruno,” said George. “Didn’t Melvin tell you that I am a financial giant?”

“It’s true!” exclaimed Boots breathlessly.

“Okay,” said Bruno. “But how are you going to take fifteen thousand dollars and turn it into fifty thousand?”

“With considerable ease,” said George smugly. “The stock market, of course. I happen to have an inside tip on a mining stock. If you will give me your money, I will invest it for you.”

“Hold on just a minute,” said Bruno. “I don’t know much about the stock market, but if you can make money, you can also lose money. What if we buy and the stock goes down?”

George stiffened. “My stocks never go down.”

Boots nodded. “That’s true too.”

“Okay,” said Bruno, “even if we trusted you, there’s still a problem. The money is in a special bank account.”

“In whose name is this account?” asked George.

“Ours,” replied Bruno.

George shrugged expressively. “Then I fail to see your problem. Go and withdraw the money at once. The stock market will not wait, you know.”

“We can’t touch that money!” exclaimed Boots. “The Fish would slaughter us!”

George smiled. “Mr. Sturgeon would have to find out about it before he could become angry. And when he does find out, it will be because you have all that money to give him.”

“My view exactly,” said Bruno enthusiastically. “Boots, this is a really cool guy! Why wasn’t I told about him?”

“You
were
told,” said Boots, “and you
know
what I told you. Bruno if we lose that money, The Fish will kill us for sure!”

Bruno ignored him. “George, how much time do we have to get to the bank?”

“There should be a week or two,” George calculated, “but it is usually good to buy earlier. Don’t delay too long. Contact me when you have the money.” He left them.

“Bruno, are you crazy?” Boots cried. “How can you even consider putting money that doesn’t belong to us into the hands of that crackpot?”

“You’re the one who told me that that crackpot never loses,” said Bruno. “So what’s the problem?”

“If you can’t see the problem, you’re as crazy as he is!” Boots shouted. “You also need
my
signature at the bank, and I’m not signing!”

“Then you’re going to be a turkey,” said Bruno. “As a matter of fact, you’re going to be worse than a turkey because you could have saved yourself and you didn’t!”

“Better a turkey than a dead duck!” Boots insisted. “There’s no way I’m signing over fifteen thousand dollars for George to play with.”

“How about ten thousand?” said Bruno hopefully.

“No,” said Boots firmly.

“Well, what about Cathy’s six thousand?” suggested Bruno. “The Fish doesn’t even know about that, so he can’t possibly find out it’s missing.”

“No!” said Boots.

“You know,” said Bruno, “you don’t have the right to decide this thing for guys like Pete Anderson who really want to stay here at the Hall. Just because you don’t have the belly for it doesn’t mean the other guys don’t. The Fish said this bank account was a great responsibility. Well, it is. It’s our responsibility to poll all the guys — and all the girls too — to find out what they want us to do with their money.”

“You know darn well they’d want us to invest it,” said Boots angrily.

“Well, then, that’s what we have to do — morally,” said Bruno. “The question is how much.”

“No more than a hundred dollars,” said Boots.

“That would be a waste of time,” said Bruno. “I tend to lean towards two thousand.”

“All right,” sighed Boots, “two hundred.”

“Fifteen hundred and not a penny less,” argued Bruno.

“Four, then,” said Boots.

“Ridiculous.”

“Five?”

“It’s a deal!” said Bruno, much too quickly.

Boots grinned despite his fears. They were friends again.

* * *

The following morning, the Ralph’s Laundry truck that picked up and delivered at Macdonald Hall twice a week went slowly down the driveway with its load of dirty laundry. As it was about to turn out onto the highway, the engine coughed once, sputtered and ground to a halt. The driver checked the gas gauge. Empty. He left his truck and began walking back to the Faculty Building.

Inside the truck, under a mound of rumpled sheets, Bruno nudged Boots.

“Why are we stopping? We can’t be there yet.”

“I don’t know,” said Boots. “This was a terrible idea in the first place.”

“Well, how else are we going to get to the bank?” asked Bruno. “We can’t very well ask The Fish to give us a lift. He revoked our punishment, but he sure didn’t say anything about fund-raising. Why don’t you look out the window and see where we are?”

“Not me,” said Boots fervently. “If I look out that window, I’ll see The Fish looking back in at me.”

“All right, I’ll look.” Bruno scrambled out from under the sheets and crept on all fours to the window in the back door of the panel truck. “Oh no!” he groaned. “We never left the Hall. The truck must have broken down or something. We’re sitting at the end of the driveway.”

“That means we’re in full view of the whole campus!” Boots wailed. “We can’t get out! Someone’s bound to see us!”

“Shhh! They don’t know we’re in here yet,” warned Bruno. “Stop yelling.”

“What are we going to do?” Boots insisted.

“We’ll have to wait it out,” decided Bruno. “Maybe they’ll fix the truck and we can still get to the bank.”

Forty-five long minutes passed. The two boys sat in miserable silence, listening to shouts from the nearby soccer field and far-off screams from the field-hockey team at Miss Scrimmage’s.

“‘Maybe they’ll fix the truck,’” Boots mimicked finally. “And maybe they won’t! How are we going to get out of here?”

“Shhh! Someone’s coming!” whispered Bruno sharply. “Get down!”

The back door opened and a huge laundry bag was tossed inside. It landed on top of Boots.

“Oof!”

“Ralph?” queried the voice of Wilbur Hackenschleimer. “Is that you, Ralph?”

“No,” said Boots. “There’s nobody here but us laundry.”

“Wilbur!” exclaimed Bruno, poking his head out from under the pile. “We’re saved!”

A few minutes later, carrying two large laundry bags, one under each arm, Wilbur Hackenschleimer walked away from the laundry truck in the direction of Dormitory 3.

* * *

“This sure was a great idea of Cathy’s,” said Bruno with enthusiasm. He and Boots were lying flat on the floor in the back of Miss Scrimmage’s black pick-up truck.

“I thought we’d had enough excitement for one day,” said Boots nervously. “I hope no one saw us sneak over here.”

“They were all at lunch,” said Bruno. “No one was around to see us.”

“I wish I was at lunch right now,” said Boots. “I’m starving. We spent breakfast in a laundry truck and now lunch in a pick-up. We’ll probably spend dinner in jail.”

“Why do you have to be such a pessimist?” asked Bruno. “What can go wrong? Cathy said Miss Scrimmage has to go to the drugstore. The drugstore is right next door to the bank. It’s all very simple.”

Boots just shook his head.

Cathy and Diane stood on the front steps of the residence and watched Miss Scrimmage’s truck pull out onto the highway.

“Hey!” said Diane. “She’s going the wrong way!”

Cathy looked surprised. “Maybe she isn’t going to the drugstore.”

“But you told Bruno …”

“Oh well,” Cathy laughed, “so they’ll have a nice ride.” In the distance, thunder rumbled. “Then again, maybe not.”

* * *

At six o’clock the rain was still pouring down. Bruno and Boots, soaked to the skin and weak with hunger, dragged themselves into the dining hall.

Bruno was livid. “I’ll get Cathy Burton for this,” he said under his breath, “if it takes me two hundred years!”

“‘What can go wrong?’” Boots mimicked savagely. “Nothing much! Miss Scrimmage can go to the hairdresser, buy a darling new dress, stock up on shotgun shells, lose her purse and spend two hours looking for it — everything
except
go to the drugstore.”

Both boys picked up trays and got into the cafeteria line, eyeing the food ravenously. Boots sneezed. Bruno coughed and wheezed.

“My goodness, how did you get so wet?” said the elderly lady who was serving dinner.

“It’s a long story, Ma’am,” said Bruno. “May I please have lots of everything?”

Boots sneezed again. Both boys were shaking with chills.

“You’re both sick! Go to the infirmary at once!”

“The infirmary?” asked Boots meekly. “No food?”

“You’ll have something there,” insisted the lady. “Straight to the infirmary, now. Hurry, before you get worse!”

Bruno and Boots moaned in harmony and obeyed. It was not long before they were propped up in adjacent beds in the infirmary, downing steaming bowls of cream of wheat with great relish.

“You know,” said Bruno between enthusiastic slurps, “this may have been a blessing in disguise.”

Boots gagged. “Double pneumonia and a bowl of mush! Some blessing! What are you talking about?”

“Well, look at it this way,” explained Bruno. “We’re not really sick, and tomorrow morning they’ll release us. They’ll think we’re in class, and our teachers will think we’re in the infirmary. That’ll leave us free to —”

“Go to the bank,” finished Boots without much spirit.

* * *

Early the next morning Bruno and Boots stepped outside the infirmary building, took a quick look around and sprinted for the wooded area that lined the eastern perimeter of the campus. When they reached the cover of the trees, they slowed to a walk.

“What time is it?” asked Bruno.

Boots consulted his watch. “Quarter after seven,” he replied. “When does that school bus come by?”

“In about twenty minutes,” said Bruno. “We’d better hurry.”

“Bruno, it’s a little kids’ school bus. How are we going to pass for little kids? The driver will kick us off.”

“No, he won’t,” said Bruno. “Just leave everything to me.”

“I left everything to you yesterday,” moaned Boots, “and I had a wonderful day!”

In ten minutes they arrived at the bus stop and slipped into line with a crowd of young children. As they filed onto the bus, the driver stared and then burst out laughing.

“Big for your age, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I failed grade three six times,” Bruno grinned back hopefully.

“You guys from Macdonald Hall use this like your own private bus,” said the driver. “All right. Take a seat.”

Bruno glanced triumphantly at Boots. They were on their way.

When the bank manager arrived to open his bank on the stroke of ten that morning, he found Bruno and Boots asleep on the front step. They had been there since eight o’clock.

Bruno deposited Cathy’s cheque to the Macdonald Hall account, then began to fill out a withdrawal slip.