“Of course not,” said Bruno. “A man in love needs his sleep.”
* * *
Miss Scrimmage and Miss Peabody sat in the sitting room. The Headmistress poured two cups of tea from her very best china pot and faced her assistant with some trepidation.
“Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?” asked Miss Peabody, downing the entire cup and looking her employer squarely in the eye.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Scrimmage uncomfortably. “This is so delicate. For the last week or so, a large number of the girls have been speaking to me — lady to lady —”
“What do you mean?” asked Miss Peabody impatiently. “Don’t tell me they’re complaining about me again. I’ll soon run that out of them.”
“No, no,” said Miss Scrimmage. “It seems that the girls are — well — enamoured — of young Mr. Wizzle from Macdonald Hall. And they are all heartsick because — uh — they say — er — they say he’s in love with another woman — and that she’s you.” Miss Scrimmage finished in a rush, pink to the roots of her hair.
“Balloonjuice!” exploded Miss Peabody. “The girls can’t be in love with Wizzle. He’s — dull and pudgy.”
“Nonetheless, they are,” said Miss Scrimmage. “And I felt that I should bring it to your attention. They seemed quite definite about Mr. Wizzle’s — er — regard for you.”
“That’s even more balloonjuice! Where would they get such a stupid idea? Wizzle and I hardly ever see each other, and when we do we fight. Don’t worry, Miss Scrimmage. A few laps of the track will run this out of their systems.”
“Now, Miss Peabody,” Miss Scrimmage went on, “you must realize that the girls are a little angry with you. They feel you’ve been trifling with the affections of their — ahem — sweetheart.”
“This is ridiculous!” exclaimed Miss Peabody. “They need exercise!” She stormed out of the sitting room.
* * *
Mr. Wizzle sat at his desk, staring out the window at an oak tree on which someone had carved a large heart enclosing the initials W.W. and G.P. The campus was covered with this graffiti. For more than a week now he had been overhearing his name linked romantically with Miss Peabody’s. And Miss Peabody was enjoying incredible popularity at Macdonald Hall. Her name was scribbled on notebooks; boys talked about her with love in their eyes; the more artistic students sketched her; why, one boy had even handed in his punishment lines with a love sonnet to her written on the back. The boys were looking at him with envy as the man who had captured her heart.
Had he? And why all this admiration? Miss Peabody was a lovely girl, but surely — Perhaps he hadn’t looked clearly enough. Well, he would call her, just to chat.
He picked up the phone and dialled Miss Scrimmage’s number.
“Ah, yes — Miss Peabody, please … Uh, hello there. This is Walter … Wizzle. Walter Wizzle … Ah, yes. Hello … Why I called? Uh — well — I just wanted to inquire as to — how things are going … Oh, that’s good. Everything is fine here, too … Yes, good-bye, Miss Peabody.”
He hung up the phone and looked off into space. She didn’t seem to be in love with him. In fact, she had sounded somewhat standoffish — indifferent even. A goofy grin spread over his face. She was shy!
Miss Peabody sat at her desk, her arms folded and cradling her head, staring across the room at a large poster of a tank she had on the wall.
For the past three days Wizzle had been phoning intermittently and even showing up at the school asking if there was anything he could do to help out. It was creating havoc among the girls, who honestly did seem to idolize the man (though for what reason she could not possibly imagine). But why was he hanging around? Could he actually be seeking out her company? The girls seemed to think so. Miss Scrimmage was sure of it and had assumed the role of motherly chaperone, inviting Wizzle for hundreds of cups of tea. It was all a load of balloonjuice, and yet …
* * *
Bruno and Boots helped Cathy and Diane in through their window.
“Sorry we couldn’t come over to you,” said Bruno, “but things have been pretty heavy with The Fish lately and we couldn’t risk it.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” smiled Cathy. “We just came over for a Coalition meeting. How are the wedding plans?”
“Great,” grinned Bruno. “I think Wizzle’s falling in love. He’s over visiting Peabody practically every day. They’ll probably get married soon.”
Boots laughed. “Bruno, people don’t get married just because you want them to. It’ll take a little more time than that if it ever happens at all.”
“Really?” asked Bruno. “How long?”
Diane shrugged. “Months. Years.”
“No!” Bruno was aghast. “We can’t wait that long. We’ll have to figure out some way to speed up the process.”
“Well, Miss Scrimmage is on our side,” said Cathy. “She’s fawning all over them and playing mother of the bride. The only thing that bothers me is Peabody. Who can tell what she’s feeling? That is, if she’s feeling anything at all. How can we melt her heart if she doesn’t have a heart to melt?”
“Hmmm,” said Bruno. “How about — yeah! Send her some flowers and candy and stuff like that and say it’s from Wizzle!”
Diane was unconvinced. “She’d probably be charmed more by an M-16 rifle.”
“Don’t be so negative,” said Cathy. “Okay, we’ll look after the flowers and candy. Let’s go. See you, guys.”
“Bruno,” said Boots after the girls had left, “this is all crazy. It’s never going to work. And if The Fish gets wind of it — We ought to stop it.”
“It’s not so simple,” said Bruno. “We made Wizzle fall in love with Peabody. Now we have a moral responsibility to see to it that she loves him back.”
Boots did not reply. He was having a giddy vision of a ten-metre Wizzle balloon rising out of nowhere in front of Mr. Sturgeon.
* * *
Well, thought Miss Peabody, alone in Miss Scrimmage’s sitting room, there wasn’t any doubt about it. Wizzle was in love with her all right. This morning a huge bouquet of flowers had appeared outside her door. There had been no card, but it was obviously Wizzle’s doing. And at Miss Scrimmage’s endless teas he did nothing but compliment her on her hair, her eyes, her clothes, even her shoes.
Why her?
“Oh, look!” came Miss Scrimmage’s voice from the hall. Miss Peabody mouthed the words along with the Headmistress’s now daily ritual. “Look who’s here. It’s Mr. Wizzle. Do come in and have some tea, won’t you’”
Mr. Wizzle bounced energetically into the room and beamed at Miss Peabody.
“Hello, Wizzle,” she said without enthusiasm. Miss Scrimmage sat down and began clinking teacups.
“It’s a beautiful day,” commented Mr. Wizzle. It was a poetic remark brought on by the nearness of Miss Peabody.
Miss Peabody sighed. “Thanks for the flowers, Wizzle.”
He was taken aback. She had received flowers! But he had sent no flowers! A crushing thought occurred to him. There was another man. Someone else had noticed Miss Peabody and sent her flowers. Who could it be? Sturgeon? No, too old, and married besides. Fudge? No, not Fudge. Flynn? Of course! Coach Flynn was after Miss Peabody!
“Is something wrong, Mr. Wizzle?” asked Miss Scrimmage in concern. “You look rather pale.”
“No, no, everything’s fine,” replied Mr. Wizzle with false heartiness. “It’s just that I can’t stay very long today. I’ve got to do some shopping.”
He would buy presents for Miss Peabody — beautiful presents, lots of them. And he would start exercising regularly until he had trimmed down a little.
Chapter 15
La Montagne
“Quilting!” Mr. Sturgeon slapped the letters joyously onto the Scrabble board. “Now let’s see. That’s fifty points for using all the letters — eighteen points times three for the triple word score — that’s fifty-four — and seven points for joining the G to ASP — a hundred and eleven al
l told, Mildred. I’m killing you this game!” He grinned with satisfaction.
His wife smiled. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time, William. Surely it can’t be just because you’re winning the game.”
Mr. Sturgeon chortled happily. “I’m Headmaster again, Mildred. For the past couple of weeks Wizzle’s been spending so much time over at Scrimmage’s that he’s hardly ever here. It’s wonderful.”
“At Scrimmage’s? Why does he go there?”
“Mildred, haven’t you heard? He’s courting Miss Peabody.”
“Really?” Mrs. Sturgeon clasped her hands. “How lovely!”
“It certainly is. We haven’t heard the clattering of that computer for more than a week.”
“You mean he’s neglecting his duties?”
“Fortunately, yes,” said the Headmaster, “and everyone’s better off for it. He really seems to have fallen for her. He’s constantly carrying presents and flowers and candy over to her, and he’s even taken up jogging along the road in front of Scrimmage’s every morning!”
“And does Miss Peabody return his affection?”
“I devoutly hope so,” said the Headmaster. “If she does not, then your Mr. Wizzle is making a perfect ninnyhammer out of himself. Come on, Mildred. It’s your turn.”
* * *
“I don’t understand what’s taking so long!” complained Bruno. “Why aren’t they married yet? It’s been almost a month!”
“The problem is Peabody,” said Cathy. “She’s got no heart. Are you absolutely sure there’s no such thing as a love potion?”
“Positive,” said Bruno. “Hmmm. Maybe it’s not all Peabody. Maybe it’s Wizzle. He’s just not forceful enough. Girls, what do they do when they’re together at Scrimmage’s?”
“Nothing,” said Diane. “They have tea with Miss Scrimmage.”
“Well, that’s the problem!” exclaimed Bruno. “I think we’re going to have to work on Wizzle’s confidence so he’ll ask her for a date and they can be alone together.”
“How are we going to do that?” asked Boots.
Bruno grinned. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Mr. Wizzle was sitting at his desk gift-wrapping a volume of war poetry when the voices of Bruno Walton and Boots O’Neal wafted in through the open window.
“My brother wrote me a letter,” Bruno was saying. “He wants to get to know this girl, but he doesn’t know how to approach her and he wanted my advice. At first I didn’t know what to tell him and then I thought ‘What would Mr. Wizzle do?’ After that it was all clear to me.”
Boots whistled. “Yeah, that Mr. Wizzle sure has a way with women.”
“I know,” said Bruno. “Take Miss Peabody, for instance. He knows that she’s the type of woman who appreciates forcefulness. I’ll bet he doesn’t waste time beating around the bush. He’d just step right in there and ask her out, straight as an arrow!”
Mr. Wizzle sat taller in his chair. Yes! That was exactly what he would do!
* * *
“Hello, Peabody speaking … Oh, Wizzle, it’s you … Friday night? … Are you sure you really want that? … Well — uh — okay, I guess so. Good-bye, Wizzle.”
Miss Peabody slammed down the receiver with an annoyed frown. Now, why had she accepted his invitation? What a waste of a Friday night! Why would someone who had no trouble at all kicking three hundred butts into shape not have the guts to tell Wizzle that she didn’t want to go out with him on Friday evening? Surely a former U.S. Marine could manage to say, “No, Wizzle, I don’t want to go out with you.” Of course. Then why hadn’t she said it?
Oh, well, with any luck Friday would go badly and even Wizzle would be able to see that the two of them were just not compatible. Reassured by this thought, she resumed her paper work.
* * *
Late Friday night Miss Scrimmage stood in the doorway of the residence hall to welcome Miss Peabody home from her date.
“Hello, dear. How was your evening?”
“Terrible!” muttered Miss Peabody, trudging into the building. “Just don’t ask!”
Miss Scrimmage was aghast. “Did Mr. Wizzle make improper advances?”
The Assistant Headmistress rolled her eyes. “Do you know what his idea of a big time is? We went to a cello recital!”
“Oh, how nice.”
“I yawned so wide I thought he’d fall in! Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. Goodnight.”
She walked to her room, reflecting that the worst part of the whole dreary experience was that she couldn’t bring herself to tell Wizzle that they were through. She entered her room and kicked her Niagara Falls cushion, another gift from Wizzle, across the floor. Why should she feel obliged to tell Wizzle they were finished when they had never even started?
* * *
“He’s a dead loss, that’s what he is. A dead loss,” said Bruno glumly at the lunch table. “He stinks with women. Boots and I were talking with Cathy. Wizzle took Peabody out Friday night. You know where he took her? A cello recital! You know — those big violins that moan a lot. I just can’t believe it! At this rate it’ll be years before they even hold hands!”
“It’s hopeless,” said Boots. “They’re the least romantic pair in the world.”
“It does seem unlikely that we will achieve our goal of matrimony,” put in Elmer.
“You guys are just going about it the wrong way,” said Wilbur.
“Oh, yeah?” challenged Bruno. “Since when did you become the big Casanova?”
“It’s very simple,” Wilbur insisted. “There’s only one thing you should use to get two people in the mood to grow fond of each other.”
“What’s that?” asked Boots.
“Food.”
Everyone laughed.
“No, really!” said Wilbur, now so involved in the argument that he was ignoring his lunch. “Think about it. When families get together they put on a big spread; when married couples celebrate their anniversaries they have supper together; when major corporations form business affiliations the contract is signed in a restaurant over lunch; and when two people are interested in each other they have intimate dinners by candlelight.” He looked around. “Right?”
There were still snickers.
“No. No — wait!” said Bruno. “He’s got a point there. Let’s set Wizzle and Peabody up for a romantic dinner. Now let’s see — where?”
“Ralph’s Diner has the best hamburgers in Chutney,” offered Pete Anderson.
“No, no,” said Sidney. “It’s got to be classier than that. Maybe fish and chips.”
“No,” said Bruno. “It’s got to be somewhere really nice.”
“My uncle Manfred owns a restaurant,” said Wilbur.
“What’s it called?!” grinned Larry. “Mr. Eat?”
Wilbur looked insulted. “Have you ever heard of Manny’s?”
“The Manny’s?” Chris goggled. “That fancy place in downtown Toronto?”
Wilbur nodded proudly. “Food is a serious business in our family. Last year the president of the United States dined there on his trip to Toronto. It’s got a five-star rating.”
Bruno smiled broadly. “That settles it. Saturday night Wizzle and Peabody are going out for the most fantastic dinner of their lives.”
Boots frowned. “Bruno, if this Manny’s is as fancy as Wilbur says it is, it’s going to cost a fortune.”
“So what?” shrugged Bruno. “Wizzle’s paying. Wilbur, make the reservation. Ask your uncle for the best table.”
* * *
Mr. Wizzle walked into his office to find a mauve envelope on his desk. He opened it and removed a perfumed note in elegant, flowing handwriting. It read simply: Manny’s, Saturday night, eight o’clock.
He held the note to his nose and inhaled the deep scent of lavender. His heart soared. Miss Peabody was meeting him for dinner!
Miss Peabody read the note she found on her desk. It was printed quite professionally on a white sheet of paper.
> Miss Gloria Peabody,
Please meet with me at Manny’s in downtown Toronto on Saturday at exactly eight o’clock. This may seriously concern your future.
A Friend.
She frowned. Wizzle? No, it couldn’t be. It had too much style. Who could it be then? What could it mean? The tone of the letter was vaguely threatening. She set her jaw stubbornly. Well, she would definitely get to the bottom of this — on Saturday at eight.
* * *
“Right on time, half an hour early,” announced Bruno triumphantly. He, Boots and Wilbur sat in the waiters’ room off the gleaming kitchen of Manny’s renowned restaurant. They watched the closed-circuit TV screen as Wilbur’s uncle personally escorted Mr. Wizzle to a private dining room.
“This TV thing is great!” exclaimed Bruno gleefully. “This way you can spy on all the people eating here!”
“It’s not for spying,” said Wilbur indignantly. “It’s so waiters can watch their tables without hovering around the people.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a really fancy place,” said Bruno. “I’m glad your uncle’s nice enough to let us in here.”
Boots looked at his watch. “I wonder how long it’ll be before Peabody arrives. I’d like to get this over with and get back to school before The Fish finds out we’re gone. We’re supposed to be confined to our room, you know.”
“Relax,” said Wilbur. “Uncle Manfred’s garlic bread is worth any risk. Have some.”
Bruno and Boots each took a piece of bread and continued to watch the screen. Just then Wilbur’s Uncle Manfred came up behind them. “Well, gentlemen, everything is ready except for the wine. Any suggestions?”
“Wine?” asked Bruno uncertainly.
“Of course,” replied the restaurateur. “We always serve a complimentary bottle with our private dinners. Since you know the happy couple, I thought you might recommend something …”
“Well,” Bruno said, “what kind of wine would you serve at a wedding?”
“Champagne, naturally.”
Bruno nodded. “If you say so, then champagne it is.”