Go Jump in the Pool (7 page)

P.S. Everything is really great here
.

“Bruno, this is the most ridiculous letter yet! Last time it was geography I was in love with. The time before that, health. My folks are going to think I’ve gone crazy!”

“They have to be convinced that taking you out of the Hall would ruin your life,” Bruno insisted. “This is the only subtle way. Otherwise, you may as well start packing. Gobble, gobble.”

Boots swallowed hard. “Have you got a stamp?”

“One thousand, six hundred and eighty-nine dollars,” Bruno announced as the last quarter clicked into the bucket. It was Sunday morning, and he and Boots were seated on the floor of their room counting the proceeds from the talent show.

“What’s that five-dollar bill in your hand?” Boots asked accusingly. “Royalties for inventing the ‘ugliest man in the world’ skit?”

“Of course not!” Bruno replied, highly insulted. “Miss Scrimmage’s is going to the Royal Ontario Museum tomorrow, and Cathy’s going to buy us some lottery tickets while she’s in town. Two hundred thousand bucks. That’ll pay for it four times over.”

“I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that we might not win,” Boots said.

“Not for a minute,” Bruno replied serenely.

“How do we get the money to Cathy?”

“Same as always,” Bruno told him. “We become the midnight marauders. Tonight after lights-out.”

* * *

Mr. Sturgeon sat at the breakfast table staring distastefully at his jack-in-the-box. “Mildred,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s too bad the barracuda didn’t win this thing. Everything else happened to her last night.”

“Poor Miss Scrimmage,” sighed Mrs. Sturgeon, pouring coffee for two. “It certainly wasn’t her night. As if the eggs and the owl and the rabbit weren’t enough, her well-bred young ladies proved how shy and demure they really are.”

“Let’s not be smug, Mildred. The reaction of our boys was nothing to be proud of. It leaves me with the problem of what to do about Bruno and Melvin.”

“Why, let them continue their efforts, of course!” his wife exclaimed. “We’ve never had such school spirit!”

The Headmaster nodded in agreement. “Take a boy like Elmer Drimsdale,” he said. “He’s never taken part in anything before, and he’s never had any friends. Bruno has brought him into the mainstream of things. I think all this fund-raising may be good for the school.” He chuckled. “It’s just not very good for Miss Scrimmage.”

“Would you care for some French toast, dear?”

“No, thank you,” her husband replied. “That Scrim-cake you made me eat last night hasn’t quite gone down yet.”

* * *

A dozen or so boys were gathered around the lunch table.

“That brings our total to $3,095.30,” announced Elmer Drimsdale, “which is 6.1906% of our objective. We still need $46,904.70.”

“At our present rate of income,” said Chris Talbot, “by the time our pool is built our arthritis will be too severe for us to be able to swim.”

“Not quite,” said Elmer. “At our present rate, we will have fifty thousand dollars in approximately eleven months, two weeks and three days. Common arthritis does not develop so rapidly.”

“Don’t worry,” Boots put in sarcastically. “Bruno is buying some lottery tickets. We’re going to win two hundred thousand.”

“Oh,” said Chris. “Well, that’s different.”

“According to the odds,” said Elmer, “I calculate that we have a better chance of being stung to death by bees than of winning first prize in the lottery.”

“Given a choice,” said Bruno, “I’d rather win the money. By the way, why is it that not one of you is down on his knees to me for that glorious show last night? It was my idea, after all.”

All the boys began chattering at once.

“Boy, those Scrimmettes!”

“Elmer stole the show!”

“The rabbit stole the show!”

“
I
stole the show!”

“The Scrimmettes!”

“Face it, Miss Scrimmage stole the show!”

“What about the Amazing Frederick’s mother?”

“And when the door prize exploded in The Fish’s face …”

“But the
Scrimmettes
!”

“Yes,” said Boots soberly. “The Scrimmettes. Bruno, we haven’t heard the end of that.”

“It
was
memorable,” Bruno agreed with a smile.

“
I’ll
never forget it,” seconded Wilbur Hackenschleimer from the depths of a chicken pot pie.

Bruno ignored him. “Chris,” he said, “we need posters.”

“You know, I
do
go to school here,” Chris protested.

“You and a lot of others could end up going to school elsewhere if this campaign doesn’t work,” Bruno reminded him. “How about this:
Win a Contest for Macdonald Hall
?”

“Fine,” Chris agreed. “Now, what are you talking about?”

“Contests,” Bruno repeated. “Every cereal box, every candy bar, every magazine has them. There’s money and prizes out there, and Macdonald Hall is ready to claim its share. Every single kid at this school will be entering contests. Whatever we win will go into the pool fund.”

“What about Scrimmage’s?” asked Mark.

“Them too,” Bruno agreed. “Eight posters — six for us and two for them.” He slapped one of the two buckets which formed the table’s centrepiece. “Grab one, Boots. We’ve got to take the money to The Fish for banking.”

“To his house?” Boots asked nervously.

“Well, he’s not at the office. Besides, it’s better at his house. Mrs. Sturgeon will be there and she’d never let him kill us.”

“If it hadn’t been for her and her camera,” mourned Butterfingers Rampulsky, “I wouldn’t have chucked four eggs at Miss Scrimmage.”

This incited more laughter.

Bruno and Boots hoisted their buckets and started out of the cafeteria building. Not two steps from the door, Boots let out an unearthly howl and collapsed in his tracks, pointing wordlessly towards the sky.

“What? What? What?” asked Bruno, trying to follow the wildly pointing finger. Then he saw it. At the very top of the flagpole, its brown feathers stirring in the light breeze, was Miss Scrimmage’s hat.

When their laughter had died down, Bruno finally managed to say, “We can’t just leave it up there. It’ll upset The Fish. Boots, you go up and get it down.”

“Me? Why me? It was your precious Elmer Drimsdale who conjured up the owl that put it there! Let him go up and get it!”

“Don’t argue with me,” Bruno said. “We’ve got a chance to make some points with Miss Scrimmage. Now get up there and rescue that hat!”

Thoroughly defeated, Boots walked up to the flagpole and began to climb. A small crowd of Macdonald Hall boys started gathering on the lawn, while across the road, on a grassy hill, a group of girls was forming a cheering section.

When Boots was about three-quarters of the way to the top and the tip of the flag was tickling his face, a sudden gust of wind lifted the hat from the pole and carried it soaring through the air. It settled down gently onto the highway where it was immediately run over by a wedding procession consisting of approximately thirty beribboned cars, horns honking. The crowd cheered madly, and the last sight Boots saw before he slid, fireman fashion, to the ground was Miss Scrimmage standing on the balcony waving her arms at him.

Students from both schools converged on the road and stood looking down in great glee at the wreckage of Miss Scrimmage’s hat. It was as flat as a pancake, newly decorated with white ribbon and a cardboard sign which read:
Good Luck Mary and Frank
. A group of girls picked up the hat and carried it home to their Headmistress.

“Boy!” Bruno exclaimed to Boots, “I wouldn’t be in your shoes! Is Miss Scrimmage ever mad at you! It’s a good thing she doesn’t have her shotgun!”

Boots began to shout, “Mad at me? Why me? I didn’t do anything! You sent me up there! It’s all your fault!”

“Oh, quit your crabbing,” said Bruno, “and grab a bucket. We’ve got to go and hand in this money.”

The two boys crossed the lawn to the small white cottage on the edge of the campus. “A chance to make points with Miss Scrimmage,” Boots was muttering. “We made points, all right! Demerit points!”

Bruno rang the doorbell.

Mrs. Sturgeon opened the door. “Well, hello there. Come right in. We were just talking about your wonderful show.” She led them into the living room. “Mr. Sturgeon is on the telephone at the moment. He’ll be with you shortly.”

“We’ve brought the money,” said Bruno. “Mr. Sturgeon said he would take it up to the bank tomorrow to add it to our account.” He held out the gold bankbook and a prepared deposit slip.

From the other room they overheard the Headmaster’s voice. “Yes, well, thank you, Miss Scrimmage. I’ll look into it right away.” There was a click as he hung up the receiver, and then he appeared in the living room. “I thought I heard the doorbell,” he said. “Ah, O’Neal. I just had a conversation with Miss Scrimmage and your name came up.

“The hat, sir?” Boots offered meekly.

“Yes. I’m told you threw it on the highway where it was destroyed by the traffic.”

“I can explain everything, sir,” said Bruno quickly.

“I’m sure you can,” said the Headmaster smoothly, “but I would much rather hear O’Neal’s version.”

“Pole,” said Boots. “Hat … flag … wind … road … wedding … Mary and Frank …”

Mr. Sturgeon held up his hand for silence. “On second thought,” he said, “perhaps I’d better hear Walton’s translation of all this.”

“It’s really very simple, sir,” explained Bruno. “When Melvin saw the hat up on top of the flagpole, he wanted to do something nice for Miss Scrimmage because she got banged around so much last night. Sir, I couldn’t hold him back. He was almost at the top of the pole when the wind blew the hat down onto the road. Then Mary and Frank’s wedding procession came along and squashed poor Miss Scrimmage’s hat. You see, sir, it was all a misunderstanding.”

Mr. Sturgeon turned to look out the window in order to hide from the boys the expression that Miss Scrimmage’s mishaps always brought to his face — part amusement, part disgust. When he turned back, his face was fully composed. “I see,” he said. “Very well. Now, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?”

“The talent show raised $1,689,” said Bruno proudly, indicating the two buckets. “We’ve brought the money so that you can bank it for us tomorrow.” He paused. “We’re still a little short, of course, but don’t worry. We’ll think of some other way to raise the rest.”

“I’m sure you will,” replied the Headmaster gravely. “Uh — a question before you go, boys. Had you seen the Scrimmettes’ — uh — costumes before they went on stage?”

Both boys studied the carpet and shuffled uncomfortably.

Finally the Headmaster said, “I think I understand what happened there. You may leave. Good afternoon.”

When Bruno and Boots had departed, Mr. Sturgeon turned a bewildered face to his wife and asked, “Mildred, who on earth are Mary and Frank?”

* * *

Two shadowy figures dropped to the ground from the window of room 306 and hid in the bushes until they were sure that all was clear. Bruno and Boots, each carrying a large cardboard poster, dashed across the campus and the highway, scaled the wrought-iron fence and came to a halt under the familiar window. Bruno scooped up and threw a handful of pebbles and immediately Diane’s blonde head appeared.

“Come on up,” she called softly.

The two boys shinnied up the drainpipe and Diane helped them over the sill and into the room.

“We were expecting you,” she told them. “Cathy’s off raiding the kitchen. We like to entertain in style.”

The door opened and Cathy Burton appeared, wheeling a laden tea cart in front of her. “Hi, there,” she greeted them. “Good pickings tonight. Leftover roast beef, chocolate cake — help yourselves.”

All four devoted the next ten minutes to the kind of serious eating perfected by Wilbur Hackenschleimer. Bruno, who had been the first to start, was the last to quit.

Finally he said, “My compliments to room service. That was great. Now to business. These are the posters for our latest fund-raising plan. The idea is to enter every single contest you can find. All winnings go into the pool fund.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the five-dollar bill. “This is for our lottery tickets. Buy a winner.”

“I didn’t know they sold lottery tickets at the Museum,” Diane commented.

“They don’t,” said Cathy. “Everyone else is going to the Museum. We’re going shopping.”

Diane nodded in resignation. “I was afraid of that.”

“Tell me,” Boots asked, changing the subject, “did you girls get into trouble over those costumes?”

“No,” Cathy said airily. “We told Miss Scrimmage that you and Bruno talked us into it.”

Boots held his head and said nothing. Bruno laughed in appreciation.

“Well, we’d better get going. We’ll be back tomorrow night to pick up the ticket. What’s on the menu?”

“Liver,” said Diane with loathing.

“We have chicken on Mondays,” offered Bruno.

“Good,” said Cathy. “Tomorrow night we’ll visit you.”

“But —” Boots protested in horror.

“See you tomorrow,” said Cathy as she hustled them out the window and down the drainpipe.

* * *

“Sir, we have three new ideas for raising money, and we thought we’d better check them out with you.”

Mr. Sturgeon sat back in his chair and sighed. “Go on, Walton.”

“Well, sir,” began Bruno, “Gormley is having a fall fair next weekend. We’d like to go and enter Wilbur Hackenschleimer in the pie-eating contest. There’s a thirty-dollar prize and Wilbur would be a cinch.”

“He can eat more pies than they can bake,” Boots added.

Mr. Sturgeon had visions of himself sitting beside Wilbur in Emergency. Wilbur was having his stomach pumped. His parents had to be informed.

“I absolutely forbid it,” he said firmly. “I will not permit you to play games with another boy’s health.”

“Well then, sir,” Bruno went on, undaunted, “tomorrow night in the fifth race at Woodbine there’s a horse called Cloudy Sunshine. Elmer Drimsdale figured the odds, and sir, he just can’t lose! So would you take twenty dollars of the pool money and bet it for us?”