Go Jump in the Pool!
To my parents.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: The Big Fizzle
Chapter 2: Only Fifty G’s?
Chapter 3: Everything Must Go
Chapter 4: Just One of Those Things
Chapter 5: Impresario at Work
Chapter 6: On Stage, Please
Chapter 7: What’s on the Menu?
Chapter 8: Jingle Fever
Chapter 9: Hold that Pose
Chapter 10: Is This Considered Our Fault?
Chapter 11: Lucky Donald McHall
Chapter 12: The Secret Ingredient
Chapter 13: Did Someone Mention Money?
Chapter 14: To Sell or Not to Sell
Chapter 15: For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!
Preview of Beware The Fish!
Chapter 1: Much Ado About Spinach
About the Author
The Macdonald Hall Series
This Can’t Be Happening at Macdonald Hall!
Beware The Fish!
The Wizzle War
The Zucchini Warriors
Lights, Camera, Disaster!
The Joke’s on Us
Copyright
Chapter 1
The Big Fizzle
“Come on, Boots! Swim!” shouted Bruno Walton. His usually overpowering voice was drowned out by the competing roars of the Macdonald Hall rooting section and their York Academy rivals on the other side of the pool.
In lane number 3, Boots O’Neal, Macdonald Hall’s star swimmer, churned his arms in a steady, powerful crawl. His pace was good, but not good enough. Dimly he could see at least two figures ahead of him.
As he bobbed up and down at the end of the race, the loudspeaker blared: First place, York Academy. Second, York Academy. Third, York Academy. Fourth, fifth and sixth, Macdonald Hall. The winners of the meet, victorious in all events, York Academy!
Wild cheering erupted from the host benches, accompanied by good-natured, though half-hearted, applause from the boys of Macdonald Hall.
As Boots heaved himself out of the pool, Bruno threw him a towel. “Nice try.”
Boots nodded breathlessly. “Those turkeys can swim!” he panted.
“Why not?” Bruno shrugged indifferently. “They have their own pool. Our team gets an hour a week at the Y.”
Boots shook his head dejectedly. “It really gets to you,” he said. “Only two weeks at school and already they’re one up on us. I sure wish we had a pool.”
Silence fell as the boys from both schools watched Mr. Hartley, Headmaster of York Academy, and Mr. Sturgeon, Headmaster of Macdonald Hall, present a large gleaming trophy to the smirking captain of the winning team. Boots and the rest of his team lined up for the traditional handshake, but led by their captain, the winners disdainfully turned their backs and walked out. Their jubilant supporters followed.
“Boy!” exclaimed Sidney Rampulsky, withdrawing his outstretched hand to flip the wet hair back from his forehead. “I never saw anything like that before!”
“Gracious winners, aren’t they?” someone commented.
“Jerks!”
“Such class!”
“They’ve been swimming too long! They must have water on the brain!”
“Turkeys!” snarled Bruno. “Someone’s going to have to teach them some manners!”
“I don’t mind losing,” said Pete Anderson mildly, “but that was pretty rotten. I’d like to fix them for that.”
There were murmurs of agreement throughout the Macdonald Hall crowd.
“Fortunately,” announced Bruno with a diabolical grin, “I happen to have the very thing. Wilbur, you’re strong. Go get the crate I hid under the back seat on our bus. The one marked Fizz-All Upset Stomach Remedy.”
Boots stared at him in horror. “Fizz-All! I thought you were kidding! Did you really bring that stuff?”
“Of course,” replied Bruno. “I believe in being prepared for any emergency. We’ll mix them a cocktail they’ll never forget!”
As the bus pulled out of the parking lot a half-hour later, twenty pounds of Fizz-All crystals were turning the York Academy pool into a white, boiling torrent. There was great jubilation on the bus, and much song and laughter.
Mr. Sturgeon turned to his athletic director, Alex Flynn. “I’m very proud of our boys,” he said. “They suffered an honourable defeat and were treated rudely, but they’re not letting it upset them.”
As the bus turned off Highway 48 onto the tree-lined driveway of Macdonald Hall, students swarmed out to meet it. Across the road, a delegation of girls from the famous Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies waved and shrieked to welcome the boys’ swim team home. The travellers rattled off the bus in great good humour.
“Well?” asked Mark Davies, editor of the school newspaper. “How did we make out this time?”
“Oh,” laughed Bruno airily, “it was a fizzle.”
* * *
“My boys did what?” Mr. Sturgeon exclaimed into the telephone.
The call had been waiting for him when he entered his office. “Mr. Hartley of York Academy, sir,” his secretary had told him. “He seems very upset.”
“Surely, Hartley, you don’t believe that … An empty crate of Fizz-All? How peculiar. What did it do to the water? … That bad, was it? … Now see here, Hartley, my boys went straight to the locker room after that disgusting snub, and straight to the bus after that … No, I do not think the crate got up and walked. I simply cannot understand how you can accuse my boys of sabotaging your pool. There is absolutely no proof … Is that right? Well, why don’t you try drinking some of your pool water. Perhaps it will settle your stomach!”
Angrily he slammed down the receiver and sat for a moment to compose himself. An odd smile crept over his thin face, and he buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Mrs. Davis, please send for Bruno Walton and Melvin O’Neal immediately.”
* * *
In room 306 of Dormitory 3, Bruno Walton and Boots O’Neal lazed at their desks, picking at their homework. “So you came in fourth,” Bruno was saying. “So what?”
“It’s not that,” Boots muttered miserably.
“You’re afraid we’ll get into trouble for fizzing up their stupid pool?”
“No, that’s not it either,” protested Boots.
“Then what is it? You’ve been sulking ever since we got back to the Hall.”
“It’s nothing — maybe.”
“Will you spit it out?” Bruno demanded.
“Well, you know my dad,” began Boots slowly. “He’s a super athlete. He was even an Olympic swimmer once. Well, he thinks the athletic program at Macdonald Hall isn’t good enough. Lately he’s been thinking about sending me to York Academy.”
Bruno emitted a startled howl of protest. “What? But — but you can’t! You’d be a turkey! A York turkey! You just can’t!”
“I may have to,” said Boots, “if that’s what my folks decide. They know the Hall is the best academic school, but they say there’s more to a guy’s education than just books.”
“But — but you’d play against me on the hockey team!” protested Bruno. “And you’d have to live over there! My new roommate would probably snore!”
“Well, maybe it won’t happen,” Boots offered hopefully.
“You can bet your track shorts it won’t happen,” Bruno snapped, “because we’re going to get a pool for Macdonald Hall!”
“We?” shrieked Boots. “As in you and me?”
“And a lot of other guys.”
“How? The Fish said the budget —”
“Don’t bother me with details. We’re getting a pool and that’s that.”
They were in
terrupted by a knock at the door. Boots opened it and took a note from the office messenger. It read: Bruno Walton and Melvin O’Neal are to present themselves at Mr. Sturgeon’s office immediately.
“That didn’t take long,” Boots commented glumly.
Bruno nodded. “The turkeys must be up to their ears in foam by now. I wonder how The Fish knew it was us.”
“Lucky guess?” Boots grinned, but his expression held a certain dread. “I wonder how mad he is,” he added as they walked down the marble corridor which led to the Headmaster’s office.
Bruno smiled confidently. “Not half as mad as Mr. Heartless and his turkeys,” he said. “Besides, I wanted to see The Fish anyway. There’s a little matter of something lacking around here.”
Boots groaned softly. “Bruno, while he’s bawling us out is no time to start asking for favours.”
“Just leave everything to me,” Bruno assured him.
Mrs. Davis, smiling sympathetically, opened the heavy oak door lettered HEADMASTER and ushered them inside. Automatically they seated themselves on the hard wooden bench that was reserved for boys who had been called to the office under a cloud.
Mr. Sturgeon was not nicknamed “The Fish” merely because of his name. The coldness of his grey eyes was exaggerated by his steel-rimmed glasses, giving him an unblinking, fishy stare. He now turned this look upon Bruno and Boots.
“I don’t suppose I need tell you what happened at York Academy immediately after we left,” he said.
Bruno shifted uncomfortably. “I guess we already know, sir,” he replied.
“That was extremely poor sportsmanship,” the Headmaster went on. “Surely the students of Macdonald Hall know how to lose graciously.”
“I guess, sir, when they refused to shake hands with our team we lost control of ourselves,” Bruno admitted.
“And you just happened to have a crate of Fizz-All with you,” Mr. Sturgeon remarked acidly. “No doubt all swim teams carry mass quantities of stomach remedy with them.” His eyes grew even colder. “You boys took the Fizz-All for the specific purpose of damaging the York swimming pool, didn’t you?”
“Oh, no, sir,” protested Boots in dismay. “That is —”
“Sir,” Bruno interjected earnestly, “Elmer Drimsdale calculates that in five days their pool will be as good as new. You know Elmer is never wrong.”
Mr. Sturgeon coughed. “I am delighted to hear that. I should hate to have to approach your parents with a bill for the repair costs. Because this is your first offence, this year at least, your punishment will be light — one week confined to your room after dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” said Boots. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sir,” said Bruno, “may we speak with you while we’re on the subject of pools?”
“Very well. What is it, Walton?”
“Sir, is there any chance at all that we’ll get a pool?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied the Headmaster, folding his hands in front of him. “We had one planned for this year, but construction costs being what they are, the budget was fifty thousand dollars short. I would like to have one because it would fill a gap in our athletic program and provide some fine recreation. However, these things can’t be helped. There simply is not enough money.”
“Yes, sir,” chorused Bruno and Boots.
“Dismissed,” said Mr. Sturgeon, waving them out.
As they were walking back to their dormitory, Boots could stand his roommate’s silence no longer. “Bruno,” he pleaded, “stop it! I don’t like that look on your face.”
“There’s no look on my face,” insisted Bruno, much too softly. “I’m just thinking, that’s all.”
“About what?” Boots demanded suspiciously.
“About how badly we’ll beat those York turkeys at the next swim meet. Which, incidentally, is going to be held at our pool — a bigger and better one than theirs.”
“Our pool? The Fish just said we aren’t getting one!”
“Yes,” Bruno continued, unheeding. “We’re not taking any more guff from those turkeys, and we’re not losing you — or anybody else, for that matter — to York Academy. We’re going to raise the money.”
“Bruno, you’re talking about fifty G’s!”
“If that’s what it takes, that’s what we’ll get,” Bruno assured him. “Tomorrow morning at breakfast I want you to round up five or six guys — let’s say two from each dorm. We’ll meet at lunch and set ourselves up as a fund-raising committee.”
“But Bruno —”
“Don’t argue with me. You don’t want to be a York turkey, do you?”
“I wasn’t arguing,” replied Boots meekly. “I just want to know who I should pick.”
“Well, let’s see,” said Bruno thoughtfully. “We’ll need Elmer Drimsdale. He’s a genius. And Mark Davies. We may need the print shop. Chris Talbot would be good — we’ll need some art work. And get Wilbur Hackenschleimer in case there’s anything heavy to carry. That should do it.”
“What will you be doing while I’m recruiting?” asked Boots.
“Sleeping in, of course. You know I never get up for breakfast.”
* * *
“Mrs. Davis,” Mr. Sturgeon instructed his secretary, “please notify Mr. Hartley of York Academy that his swimming pool will be back to normal in five days’ time.” He smiled thinly. “Tell him I have it on the highest scientific authority.”
Chapter 2
Only Fifty G’s?
“Time to get up,” announced Boots.
A lump under the blue blanket stirred slightly. “It’s the middle of the night,” it mumbled plaintively.
“It’s twenty to nine. You know how Mr. Stratton freaks out when someone is late for math class.”
Bruno Walton’s dark, tousled head appeared from under the covers. “You know I never get up before quarter to, so don’t disturb me. I’m going back to sleep.” The head disappeared again.
Five minutes and forty winks later, Bruno bounded out of bed and tore through the room like a whirlwind. Within five minutes, the two boys were headed towards their first class, Bruno hopping on one foot as he tied the other shoe.
* * *
At a secluded table in the lunchroom sat six boys. Along with Bruno and Boots from Dormitory 3 were Mark Davies, editor of the school newspaper, and the eccentrically brilliant Elmer Drimsdale, both from Dormitory 2. Dormitory 1 was represented by Chris Talbot, a talented art student, and Wilbur Hackenschleimer, an amateur weightlifter and a whiz at woodworking and metal shop. Bruno, seated at the head of the table, had obviously appointed himself chairman of the committee.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here today,” he began impressively.
Nobody answered.
“All right, I’ll tell you,” he said. “And frankly, I don’t see how any of you can even swallow your lunch!”
“I’m hungry!” protested Wilbur Hackenschleimer, his mouth full of meatloaf.
Bruno pounded the table so hard that one of Wilbur’s baked potatoes rolled off his tray and onto the floor. The big boy scrambled to retrieve it.
“How can you think of food at a time like this?” Bruno hollered. “This is the darkest hour in the history of Macdonald Hall! Our world is crumbling around us!”
“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” interrupted Boots, before Bruno could go into detail about the tragedy that had overtaken them. “He gets very emotional sometimes. What he’s trying to say is that York Academy has a pool and we don’t.”
“Right,” said Bruno. “But there’s more to it than that. We stand to lose valuable students — him for one” — he pointed at Boots — “if the Athletic Department here doesn’t start to move.”
Mark Davies nodded. “Pete Anderson’s dad has been talking about taking him out of the Hall.”
“You see?” exclaimed Bruno triumphantly. “We need that pool, and to get it we need fifty thousand dollars. And here’s how we’re goin
g to raise it.”
“We’re going to rob a bank?” suggested Chris Talbot.
“I’ve been telling him it can’t be done,” agreed Boots. “Fifty thousand dollars!”
“A fine bunch you turned out to be,” said Bruno in disgust. “If you’re content to lose our swim meets and our students to York Academy — and to have them looking down their noses at us — then go ahead. I’ll get somebody else to help.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” said Mark, “I guess I’ll help you do whatever it is you’re going to do — even if it can’t be done.”
“Me too,” put in Elmer.
“Same here,” said Chris.
At the end of the table Wilbur Hackenschleimer was attacking a huge piece of lemon meringue pie. “I’m in,” he mumbled. “I’ll do anything you want, just so long as I don’t get arrested, expelled, or starved.”
Bruno beamed. “Good. Wait for me in your rooms after classes. I’ll come around with your assignments.”
One by one the boys finished their lunch and left the dining room, until only Bruno and Boots remained at the table.
“Have you got a plan,” asked Boots, “or were you just bluffing?”
“Certainly I have a plan. I just wanted to talk it over with you first. We’re going to have a rummage sale on Saturday.”
“Did The Fish give permission?”
“It’s possible that he would if he knew about it. As it happens, he doesn’t. But I’m sure he won’t mind when he finds out it’s for the pool.”
“What’s my job?” asked Boots.
“You and I are in charge of Dormitory 3,” said Bruno. “You’re also vice-president of the fund-raising committee. We have to dig up saleable goods from our dorm, and from Scrimmage’s. The girls will be able to get us tons of stuff. I’ll take Sturgeon’s. Mrs. Sturgeon is always glad to help out.”
“We’ve got classes to think about,” Boots reminded him.
“Well, we won’t let that interfere,” Bruno replied.
Boots shrugged. “You’re the boss. We’d better get cracking.”
* * *
Bruno glanced with an appraiser’s eye over Mark Davies’s room. “Take that lamp, for instance,” he said. “It isn’t doing anything over there.” He unplugged the small lamp and placed it in a vacant corner of the room. “We’ll sell it.”