Chris Talbot got up and left the table. “I think I may be sick,” he said.
Bruno looked at his watch. “It’s quarter after seven. Let’s go.”
Grabbing two buckets each, he and Boots headed toward the Faculty Building.
Mrs. Davis was out, but the office door was open, allowing Mr. Sturgeon to watch their arrival. “Come in, come in,” he said impatiently, ushering them in and seating them on the hard wooden bench they had occupied so many times before. His eyes fell on the four money buckets, and a smile tugged at the corner of his thin mouth. But his expression remained severe.
Bruno spoke up bravely. “We brought you $1,426.30, sir. The entire proceeds of the sale.”
Mr. Sturgeon reached into one of the buckets and removed a twenty-dollar bill. “$1,406.30,” he amended. “This is a refund for one of your customers. I had a telephone call a few moments ago from Miss Scrimmage.”
“Oh,” said Bruno. “You must mean the lamp.”
“I do indeed,” said the Headmaster sternly. “Did you take it?”
Bruno hesitated. He didn’t want to cause trouble for Cathy and Diane. “Uh — I guess we did, sir.”
“Indirectly,” Boots added.
Mr. Sturgeon seemed to understand. “Then after the twenty dollars is refunded, we can safely leave the problem to Miss Scrimmage. Now we come to our problem — or should I say your problem?”
The boys remained silent.
“I am still Headmaster of this institution,” he went on. “When there are examinations, I know about them. When there are misdemeanors, I attend to them. When the grass is cut, I am consulted. You boys have been at Macdonald Hall long enough to know that nothing — absolutely nothing — is allowed to take place on this campus without my permission. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“We thought it would be a happy surprise for you, sir,” said Bruno meekly, “when you found out we were raising money for the pool.”
Mr. Sturgeon nodded. “I realize you meant well,” he said, a little less severely. “And that is why I am not going to punish you. But I would like to point out that a great deal of the harm in this world is caused by people with good intentions. There will be no more flea markets.”
“Does that mean no more fund-raising, sir?” Bruno asked anxiously. “We’re saving for the pool and we’re a little bit short.”
Mr. Sturgeon coughed and tried to look grim. But he seemed to hear Mr. Snow’s voice: “What school spirit!” and Mildred’s: “Oh, William, what harm can it do?” He could not find it in his heart to discourage them.
“You may proceed if you don’t get carried away,” he said finally.
“Yes, sir,” Bruno exclaimed happily.
“And thank you, sir,” Boots added.
“Meanwhile,” Mr. Sturgeon went on, “I’ll keep this money in the office safe for you. I don’t like the idea of keeping it in pails in the dormitories. At the earliest opportunity I shall take you boys to the bank and help you open an account for your pool fund. You are dismissed. Good evening.”
Bruno and Boots politely smiled their way out of the office. As they left the Faculty Building they met Boots’s former roommate, George Wexford-Smyth III, who was nobody’s friend and preferred it that way. He was taking his evening constitutional to clear his sinuses.
“Ah,” George sneered unpleasantly, “I should have known you two were responsible for that vulgar fish market that took place on campus today. I hope you were properly chastised.”
“Watch it, George,” Bruno smiled sweetly. “Your blood pressure.”
“Good-bye, George,” Boots announced firmly. They walked away and left him.
Bruno smiled happily. “Let’s go home,” he said with satisfaction. “You’re going to write a nice letter to your folks telling them all about our new pool.”
* * *
Mr. Sturgeon hung up his toothbrush, turned off the bathroom light, and walked into his darkened bedroom.
Bang!
“Who put that chair there? Mildred, where’s my night light?”
“Some passing tourists from California bought it,” she said mildly. “And I found that chair at the rummage sale. It was a real buy at sixteen dollars.”
“It probably belonged to the barracuda from across the road,” Mr. Sturgeon muttered.
“Now, dear, that’s no way to talk about Miss Scrimmage.”
He inched his way across the room until his hand touched his night table. There was a large metal box sitting exactly where he always placed his glasses. He picked the box up to move it. There was a sudden snap. Something soft and springy struck him in the face and a recorded voice said, “Hi there! My name is Jack!”
Mr. Sturgeon made no sound. He sat on the edge of the bed until the pounding of his heart returned to normal.
“I bought the jack-in-the-box at the sale too,” his wife explained. “I thought it was cute.”
“Oh, it is cute,” he replied calmly. “Very cute.”
They were about to settle down to sleep when they heard the police sirens.
Chapter 4
Just One of Those Things
“Scrimmage’s is crawling with cops!” Boots exclaimed from his vantage point halfway out the window. “I told you I heard sirens!”
Bruno made no reply, but a familiar fiendish grin spread across his face. “Let’s go!” he cried, throwing on his bathrobe. He tore out the door into the corridor, with Boots right behind him. As they ran, they banged on every door. “Red alert! Scrimmage’s is being raided!”
Before long, all of Dormitory 3 was milling around in confusion on the dark campus.
“What’s going on?”
“Miss Scrimmage got busted!”
“The girls are in danger!”
“Bunny rabbit slippers, Fred?”
“Who woke me up?”
“I never did trust Miss Scrimmage! She has small eyes!”
The growing din woke up the other two dormitories, and in a matter of minutes the entire population of Macdonald Hall was howling and surging across the road and onto the grounds of Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. Girls in pink nighties fluttered out to meet them.
Cathy Burton’s voice boomed over the school’s public address system: Our beloved leader is falsely accused! Save Miss Scrimmage!
At the very instant that Bruno and Boots arrived on the scene, Miss Scrimmage was being escorted out the front door by two extremely large police officers. The crowd went wild, blocking their passage.
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?”
“Mi
ss 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 …”
Chapter 5
Impresario at Work
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 ha
rmless 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.”