Go Jump in the Pool (4 page)

Diane Grant ran up to Bruno and spun him around. “Bruno, you’ve got to do something!”

“All right. I’ll bake her a cake with a file in it.”

“Bruno, this isn’t funny!” Diane exclaimed, quite upset. “It’s all your fault anyway!”

“
My
fault?” Bruno repeated.

“
His
fault?” Boots echoed.

Cathy’s high-pitched voice came over the speaker again:
Don’t forget, Miss Scrimmage, you have the right to remain silent!

A desperate-looking policeman shouted to his partner, “Barney, where the heck did all these kids come from?”

“I don’t know,” Barney called back, “but stay away from the girls. They kick! Ouch! They scratch too!”

“Do something!” Diane screeched. “Cathy! Cathy!”

Cathy Burton burst out onto Miss Scrimmage’s balcony and screamed, “All right, girls! Lie down in front of the cars!”

Amid cheers from the students of both schools, the girls flopped down on the ground all around the police cars.

“We demand to hear the charges!” Cathy screamed again.

One of the officers held up both hands for order and replied in a loud voice that could be heard by all, “The charge is armed robbery!”

Silence fell like a stone. Even Bruno Walton was unable to react with anything but mute astonishment. A full sixty seconds went by, and then the crowd began to murmur.

“Armed robbery?”

“Miss Scrimmage?”

“I knew it! Small eyes will tell!”

“I wonder where she stashed the loot.”

“She’ll get twenty years for this!”

“Maybe she’s innocent!”

“People with small eyes are
never
innocent!”

Suddenly a quiet voice penetrated the din. “I will have order!” Again the crowd fell silent. Even the policemen came to attention. Mr. Sturgeon, in his red silk bathrobe and bedroom slippers, had arrived on the scene.

“Oh, Mr. Sturgeon, thank heaven you’re here!” shrilled Miss Scrimmage, her hair curlers bobbing in agitation. “Tell them, please tell them that I didn’t do it!”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Miss Scrimmage,” said the Headmaster of Macdonald Hall. “What is it you are supposed to have done?”

“Armed robbery, sir,” Bruno announced loudly.

Mr. Sturgeon froze him with his famous steely-grey stare and turned to the police officer who seemed to be in charge. “Armed robbery of what? And when?”

“A couple of hours ago a woman answering her description robbed Joe’s Hardware Store on Highway 14,” was the reply. “She left this behind.” He reached into one of the patrol cars and pulled out a 12-gauge shotgun. “It has the name and address of this place engraved on the stock.”

Miss Scrimmage screamed and collapsed into the arms of the two officers who flanked her. The girls began screaming too. Bruno and Boots exchanged a quick look of understanding and moved backwards into the thick of the crowd. In a few seconds they returned, herding the burly form of Wilbur Hackenschleimer ahead of them.

“We sold the shotgun this afternoon, sir,” Bruno confessed. “Wilbur can describe the lady who bought it.”

“She was tall and skinny and old, sir, just like Miss Scrimmage,” Wilbur blurted out, then immediately clapped his immense hands over his mouth. “I mean —”

“I know what you mean, Hackenschleimer,” said Mr. Sturgeon. He turned to the police officers. “Gentlemen,” he explained, “through some — error, Miss Scrimmage’s shotgun was sold at a rummage sale this afternoon. In addition, I can attest to Miss Scrimmage’s whereabouts this evening as I was talking to her on the telephone — several times. Her staff and students will assure you that she did not leave the residence. This has been a ghastly mistake.”

“Ghastly, ghastly!” moaned Miss Scrimmage who was just reviving, to the great relief of the two policemen who had been holding her up.

“Well, then,” said one of the officers, “you seem to have an alibi, Ma’am.”

“An alibi indeed!” cried the outraged Miss Scrimmage. “Young man, you should be ashamed of yourself, bursting in here and victimizing a defenceless woman and terrifying these innocent girls!”

“Lady,” said one of the younger officers, “Godzilla couldn’t terrify these girls!”

“Our apologies, Ma’am,” continued the policeman in charge. “It was unfortunate, but unavoidable in view of the evidence.” He smiled placatingly. “You must be very proud of the loyalty shown by your young ladies.”

Miss Scrimmage shook herself like a hen resettling her ruffled feathers. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped,” she said at last. “I shall attempt to forget it. May I please have my shotgun?”

“No, Ma’am, not yet. It was used in a robbery and we need it for evidence.”

Miss Scrimmage was alarmed. “How can you leave us defenceless? I need that shotgun to protect my girls!”

“Lady,” laughed the same young officer, limping towards his car, “I pity the poor sucker who tries to break into
this
place!”

As the last of the police cars pulled out of Miss Scrimmage’s driveway, Mr. Sturgeon addressed his students. “Classes will be delayed one hour in the morning —” he stared down a few weak cheers “— and extended one extra hour into the afternoon. You will all return to your beds immediately.”

* * *

Bruno smothered his laughter with his pillow to avoid disturbing the Housemaster.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Boots. “Tomorrow The Fish is going to kill us for this.”

“Oh, he will not,” scoffed Bruno. “How many times can he bawl us out for the same thing? The Fish knows as well as we do that the girls took the shotgun, the same as they took the lamp. Stop worrying. You’re beginning to get on my nerves.”

“You don’t have any nerves,” Boots accused him. “How could you stand up in front of everybody and holler ‘armed robbery’ at Miss Scrimmage?”

“Well, somebody had to do it,” Bruno laughed. “Boots, where’s your sense of humour? Don’t you realize they were hauling her off to the slammer?”

Boots smiled a little in the darkness. “I’d find it funnier if I wasn’t sure it was all our fault.”

“It wasn’t anybody’s fault,” Bruno assured him. “It was just one of those things that seem to happen a lot around here. Besides, it was one of our better riots.”

Boots yawned. “On our scale of one to ten, it was at least a nine,” he agreed. “I’m tired.”

“Mmmm,” Bruno grunted. “We’ll need a good night’s sleep. We’ve got a lot of work to do on the talent show.”

There was dead silence from the other bed. Then, “What talent show?” Boots demanded suspiciously.

But Bruno had already begun to snore.

* * *

“Oh, Mildred, you should have seen it!” exclaimed Mr. Sturgeon as he climbed into bed for the second time that night. “Children all over the place, and the police dragging the barracuda off to jail!”

“William, I’ve asked you not to use that name. Poor Miss Scrimmage! What a horrible ordeal for her.”

“We haven’t heard the end of this,” her husband chuckled sleepily. “I should have let them take her away.”

“William, how can you talk that way?”

He laughed again. “It wouldn’t have done me any good. Before they locked her up they would have allowed her one telephone call. She probably would have called me!”

Ring!

In the dark, Mr. Sturgeon fumbled for the telephone on his night table. His elbow struck something as he lifted the receiver. Before he could speak, a recorded voice said, “Hi there! My name is Jack!”

“Hello? … No, Miss Scrimmage, you do not have the wrong number … Don’t mention it, Miss Scrimmage. You’re quite welcome. Any time … Oh, yes. I quite agree. Heaven forbid … Why, Miss Scrimmage, how dare you accuse my boys of stealing your shotgun? … Your young ladies, that’s who … No, Miss Scrimmage, I do not wish to wager … I most certainly do not intend to punish anyone … Oh, I’m running a zoo, am I? Well, it’s
your
school that has all the wild animals. Goodnight!”

Mr. Sturgeon hung up forcefully. “Mildred, that woman is going to drive me crazy!”

“Now, dear …”

Mr. Sturgeon stepped away from the teller’s cage, followed by Bruno and Boots. The Headmaster handed Bruno a new, gold-coloured bankbook.

“Here it is,” he said. “One thousand, four hundred and six dollars and thirty cents, registered to your signatures in trust for Macdonald Hall. It is a great responsibility, and I hope you will look after it with care.”

“Of course, sir,” promised Boots.

The three left the bank and climbed into the Headmaster’s blue Ford for the trip back to school. “Sir,” Bruno announced as they got under way, “we have another great plan for raising money.”

Mr. Sturgeon’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “I suspected it wouldn’t take you very long,” he remarked grimly. “Would you be so good as to outline the nature of this plan, and I shall determine whether or not it is great.”

“It’s a talent show, sir,” said Bruno eagerly. “We’ll audition anyone who wants to try out.”

“And the tickets will be two dollars apiece,” Boots added.

Mr. Sturgeon examined the proposal from every possible angle. It
seemed
harmless enough, even though it came from Bruno and Boots.

“I think I might give permission for that,” he said grudgingly. “Perhaps the parents would like to be invited.”

“At ten bucks a head,” Bruno added with growing enthusiasm.

“Walton,” Mr. Sturgeon said gently, “if the parents take the time and expense to attend this affair, they should be admitted at the going rate.”

Visions of dollar signs vanished from Bruno’s imagination. “Right, sir,” he agreed sadly.

“Do you think maybe, sir, we could combine with Miss Scrimmage’s school for the show?” Boots ventured timidly.

“That’s a swell idea!” exclaimed Bruno, who had put his roommate up to suggesting it in the first place. “The more people, the more talent!” Both boys eyed their Headmaster expectantly.

Mr. Sturgeon was silent. Memories of his last telephone conversation with Miss Scrimmage danced crazily through his mind. She was probably still angry and would doubtless refuse to allow her school to participate. Holding that hope, he said, “Very well. I shall take it up with Miss Scrimmage.”

“Then we have your permission to begin auditions?” Bruno asked excitedly.

Mr. Sturgeon nodded a wary nod.

* * *

The door of room 107, Chris Talbot’s room, burst open and in barged Bruno and Boots, unannounced and uninvited. In the centre of the room stood Chris, wrapped in a towel. His roommate, a freshman, cowered in terror at his desk.

“Don’t worry,” Chris assured him kindly. “They’re harmless. They just never learned to knock.” He greeted the intruders with an elaborate sweep of his hand. “Don’t be shy. Come right in.”

Bruno flopped down on the nearest bed and sniffed the air. “What stinks in here?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

“It isn’t in here,” Chris explained patiently. “That lunatic next door is disinfecting his room.”

“Sterilizing,” Boots corrected. “That’s George Wexford-Smyth III, my old roommate. He does this every forty-eight hours.”

“He must use a lot of spray,” said the freshman. “It sure smells strong.”

“Oh, George won’t use aerosol propellant. If he destroys the ozone layer,” Boots explained, “the ultra-violet rays from the sun will get him. He doesn’t spray the room. He washes it.
All
of it.”

“Mr. Clean,” Bruno commented. “Chris, do you have a little spare time?”

“Well, I was thinking of doing my homework and —”

“Oh, that. Well, this is important,” Bruno interrupted. “We need eight posters advertising the auditions for our talent show.”

Chris reached for pen and paper. “The details,” he said, all business.

* * *

“I think the talent show is a wonderful idea,” said Mrs. Sturgeon that evening as she counted out the Monopoly money for their weekly game.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Miss Scrimmage from across the table. “My girls are very enthusiastic. They’re making their costumes in sewing class.”

“How delightful,” responded Mr. Sturgeon, who hated Monopoly except that it eliminated the necessity for polite conversation during Miss Scrimmage’s weekly visits. “Shall we begin? You are first, Miss Scrimmage.”

Miss Scrimmage gave the dice an enthusiastic toss, and the number came up seven. She advanced her token seven spaces, reached for a Chance card, and read: “
Go to jail, go directly to …
” Her voice trailed off.

The sound that escaped Mr. Sturgeon was suspiciously like a snicker. Under the table, his wife kicked him sharply. As he picked up the dice, he decided he did not dislike Monopoly so much after all.

* * *

The next day, little was accomplished during the last class of the afternoon, as the suddenly stage-struck student body watched the clock. Auditions for the talent show were scheduled to begin at four o’clock sharp.

In his Canadian history class, Bruno Walton dropped an ever-so-subtle hint to the teacher. “Three-thirty already?” he mused loudly. “My, how time flies.”

“Very well, that will be all for today,” the teacher decided. “We can’t have the impresario being late for his auditions. Dismissed.”

Bruno met Boots in the hallway, and the two boys dashed off towards the school auditorium. A stampede of undiscovered stars followed along behind them. They were met by a surging crowd of girls from Miss Scrimmage’s.

“Okay!” Bruno bellowed to quiet down the crowd. “Come in and sit down. We’ll start right away. We require complete silence. Everybody has to have a fair chance to compete. Boots, bring on the first act.”

Boots produced the registration lists that had been attached to Chris Talbot’s posters. “The first act is Percy the Great,” he announced.

One of the first-year boys appeared, lugging a large sheet of plywood. Attached to the wood was a department store dummy with a grotesque smile. In his belt the boy carried four sharp knives.

“A knife thrower?” Bruno asked incredulously.

“Yes,” said Percy the Great. “Naturally when I do the show it will be with a live volunteer from the audience instead of a dummy.”

“Naturally,” said Bruno. “Go ahead. Let’s see what you can do.”