The War With Mr. Wizzle

  Boots was nervous. “Bruno, I don’t know about all this. Maybe Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody aren’t getting married because they want to — they may be getting married because The Coalition set them up. And that would be wrong.”

  “No way,” said Bruno with firm conviction. “We wouldn’t have paired them off if they weren’t perfect for each other.”

  “Yeah, but —”

  “Look,” said Bruno, “there are only two things that are important here — Wizzle’s happy and I’m happy. Have you ever seen me so happy?”

  Boots laughed. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He threw a calculus textbook, but Bruno ducked. The book struck a shelf, bringing down half a dozen other books onto the bureau and floor. Grinning, Boots moved to pick them up.

  “Forget it,” laughed Bruno, grabbing his roommate by the arm and leading him out the door. “Let’s go help them set up the chairs.”

  They slammed the door behind them. On the bureau a heavy physics text slipped and came to rest on top of the remote control button of Elmer’s earthquake machine.

  Across the campus the empty guest cottage began to vibrate silently.

  * * *

  At exactly half past three that afternoon, under a brightly shining sun and clear blue sky, Miss Scrimmage’s top music student began the opening chords of the “Wedding March.”

  Down the red carpet came Miss Peabody on the arm of Mr. Sturgeon. Her gown was satin and lace, gleaming richly in the brightness of the day. She had refused to wear the veil, dismissing it as stupid and useless, but Cathy and Diane had persuaded her to wear her hair loose, and she looked younger and prettier than ever before.

  They approached the altar where Mr. Wizzle, bolstered by Flynn, stood waiting. She shot him a dazzling smile and a very sweet “Stand up straight, Wizzle” before taking his arm and approaching the Justice of the Peace for the ceremony.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered …”

  Near the front, Boots nudged Bruno. “Hey, do you hear something? Kind of like a low humming sound?”

  “Shhh,” said Bruno, smiling blissfully. “This is the happiest moment of my life.”

  In the front row Miss Scrimmage bawled uncontrollably into a scented lace hanky. Mrs. Sturgeon held her hand and dabbed at her own eyes with a tissue. Mr. Sturgeon sat at the edge of his chair, as though trying to disassociate himself from his wife and Miss Scrimmage. Now that he had done his part and delivered the bride, he was heartily wishing himself elsewhere. He noted with grim amusement the wide smiles of pleasure on the faces of the almost one thousand students.

  Pete Anderson was squirming in his seat ecstatically. This was it — the end of those tests!

  Beside him, Mark beamed with happiness. Soon he’d have his newspaper back. And the Lines Department could be disbanded.

  Next, Sidney. When Wizzle and Peabody were gone, maybe everyone would forget about his little accident in Miss Scrimmage’s gym.

  Elmer was pleased. As soon as Wizzle left, he would begin experiments in biology, chemistry, nuclear physics, mineralogy, mechanics and cryogenics. And yes, he’d focus his telescope and chart the positions of Io, second moon of Jupiter! There were great days ahead!

  Chris Talbot was daydreaming along the same lines. Soon he’d have his art supplies back!

  Wilbur was basking in twin blessings. He could be Hackenschleimer again, and he could re-stock the food supplies in his room. Yes, there was a big shopping trip in the near future. How long had it been since he’d last tasted peanut butter?

  Cathy and Diane gripped hands and watched the service raptly. Cathy did not intend to breathe again until Wizzle and Peabody were officially pronounced man and wife. Then and only then would she believe this miracle could be happening!

  Boots was looking at Bruno rather than the wedding. Oblivious of everything but the drama at the altar, Bruno sat on the edge of his chair, his face glowing pink with pleasure. Oh, well, thought Boots, he was entitled. After all, this was Bruno’s wedding more than it was anybody else’s. Idly, he wondered again what that low humming sound might be.

  After the bridal couple had exchanged vows, the Justice of the Peace announced, “If there is any man present who can state just cause why these two people should not be joined in matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

  The silence that followed was broken by a clatter as several shingles toppled from the roof of the guest cottage. The Justice of the Peace wheeled, frowned at the falling shingles and turned back to the bride and groom. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  A great sigh rose from the spectators.

  Crack! Everyone turned and stared. The front window of the guest cottage had smashed into a million pieces.

  Crack! Crack! Another window shattered, too, and shingles began toppling from the roof in all directions. A low roar wafted over the crowd. Everyone gasped as the chimney seemed to disintegrate in slow motion. The bricks crumbled, bounced off the roof and rained to the ground in a series of dull thuds.

  “It’s the Great Lakes–St. Lawrence Lowlands fault line!” bellowed Mr. Wizzle. “Run!” He grabbed his bride and tried to lead her away from the scene. But she was not to be moved and gazed at the house in puzzled fascination.

  All eyes were on the cottage, watching the wood frame walls. They almost seemed to move with the low vibrating sound.

  Mr. Sturgeon jumped to his feet. The shingles were raining down in a steady stream.

  There was a mighty bang as the front door, frame and all, burst from the house and shot forward.

  “Heads up!” bellowed the bride. She picked up her new husband by the lapels of his coat and moved him out of harm’s way. The mangled door and frame crashed to rest right where he had been standing.

  A hush fell as everyone stared at the damaged cottage. The door had left a gaping hole of splintered wood. The hall chair and table had been thrown out onto the front step where they lay broken. A smashed vase spilled out water and battered carnations.

  A faint hissing sound reached Boots’s sensitive ears. Now, what would — He clutched at his heart. Oh no! It couldn’t be …

  The hissing grew louder, and a rapidly inflating mass of vinyl billowed from the wreckage and hovered in the air above the crowd as it filled. It obscured the sun and cast an immense shadow on the lawn as it took shape — an enormous ten-metre balloon with the unmistakable features of Walter C. Wizzle. His glasses were exaggerated, he looked pudgier than in real life, and he wore a huge black tie. On his white shirt was a red W.

  Miss Peabody laughed delightedly. “Look, Wizzle! It’s you!”

  Boots’s head sank deeper into his collar.

  There were oohs and aahs as the balloon filled out completely and continued to grow to incredible size.

  BOOM!!!

  Tiny shreds of vinyl showered down on the shocked spectators, many of whom were crouched beneath their chairs. People held their ears as echoes of the tremendous blast died away. A horrible silence fell, broken only by the sound of two last shingles hitting the ground.

  Bruno looked around him, then stood up and cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “You may kiss the bride!”

  Miss Peabody swept her shocked husband off his feet and hopped daintily over the threshold of the cottage, which lay on the ground in front of them. She kissed him soundly.

  The cheers were deafening.

  When the wedding buffet had finished, Bruno Walton and Cathy Burton walked up to the newlyweds.

  “All right, attention, everybody,” called Bruno. Silence fell. “On behalf of the students of Macdonald Hall and Miss Scrimmage’s, I am pleased to present our bride and groom with this gift, along with our most sincere good wishes.”

  There were cheers as Cathy handed Miss Peabody a large envelope. “Two tickets to Hong Kong!” she bellowed to the cheering students.

  “We’re touched, Burton,” replied Miss Peabody. She nudged her husband. “Right, Wizzle?”

  “Right.
”

  Mr. Sturgeon leaned over to Boots. “Why Hong Kong?”

  Boots shrugged nervously. “It was as far away as we could afford to send them.”

  Chapter 17

  Crystal Clear

  Comfortably clad in khakis and T-shirts, Bruno and Boots walked across the campus towards the Faculty Building in answer to a summons to Mr. Sturgeon’s office.

  “Well, Wizzle’s gone, and I don’t feel any different,” said Boots, his voice full of anxiety. “I was scared The Fish was going to kill us before, and I’m still scared of the same thing.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bruno calmly. “We haven’t done anything lately.”

  “Oh, really? I suppose you didn’t notice that the guest cottage lost a door, two windows, a chimney and a lot of shingles during the wedding! Remember? And that there was this big balloon that almost killed everybody!”

  “Oh, that. That was three days ago. I mean, we haven’t done anything recently.” Nothing could spoil Bruno’s good mood. He had just relegated his jackets and ties to the very back of his closet.

  “Well,” said Boots nervously, “I think The Fish was just waiting for things to get back to normal before he nailed us. We might get away with the balloon because Wizzle thought it was some kind of tribute, but we’ll never get away with demolishing the house. And if The Fish found out that it was us who got Wizzle and Peabody married, we’re dead!”

  Bruno smiled serenely.

  The two ran up the steps into the Faculty Building and presented themselves at Mr. Sturgeon’s office.

  “Ah, Walton and O’Neal,” said the Headmaster, ushering them in and sitting them down on the bench. “I’ve been meaning to get to you since the wedding. It’s just that things have been so hectic around here, what with the construction crews and so on.”

  Bruno waited patiently and Boots squirmed.

  “No doubt it is you two who are behind The Coalition.”

  Both boys looked up in surprise.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of The Coalition. Word gets around. Now I want to hear about it from you.”

  “Well, sir,” began Bruno, “a group of us got together and —”

  “Stop,” ordered the Headmaster. “The Coalition is The Committee, is it not?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” said Bruno. “The Coalition is an association with Miss Scrimmage’s school.”

  “Yes,” persisted Mr. Sturgeon, “but if we leave out Miss Scrimmage’s students, we are left with The Committee, are we not?”

  Bruno studied the floor. “I guess so, sir.”

  “Excellent. Now that all our terms are properly defined, I can tell you the real reason why I called you here. I would like to acquaint you with a new regulation which I have just drafted for entry into the Macdonald Hall rule book and which I feel covers all bases. It reads as follows: Regulations prohibit the forming by students of committees, coalitions, associations, unions, organizations, clubs, syndicates, conferences, brotherhoods, interest groups, lobbies, societies, commissions and task forces, or any other group activity of this nature, without strict supervision and approval by staff.” He looked up and glared at them. “There will be no exceptions. I can assure you that this will be the most strictly enforced rule at Macdonald Hall. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No, I mean is that absolutely, positively, perfectly, one hundred percent crystal clear?” The Headmaster was on his feet now, leaning over his desk at them.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” A nagging doubt assailed Mr. Sturgeon’s mind as he had a vision of Bruno’s glowing face at the wedding. Should he demand to know if The Coalition had somehow arranged the marriage of Mr. Wizzle and Miss Peabody? No, that was an absurd question that would only serve to make him look foolish. Young boys simply could not shape people’s futures like that.

  And yet, when he stopped to think about it, Mr. Sturgeon could clearly recall once confidently telling himself that young boys could never cause an earthquake. The construction crew had found a device in the basement of the guest cottage which seemed to prove that earlier assumption wrong. The Committee? Who else? And if The Committee could move the earth, a simple marriage should be no problem …

  “One more thing, boys. The indisputable success of your Committee has inspired me to form a little group of my own. I think I’ll call it The Reconstruction Fund Drive. Its purpose is to raise the money to pay for repairs to our guest cottage. And since you two have so much valuable experience in these organizational matters, I am appointing you president and vice-president respectively. Volunteer dishwashing until April should cover all bills the school will incur.”

  “But, sir —” Bruno protested.

  “That will do. I don’t think we need to discuss any more particulars in this case — such as the very interesting machine that was found in the basement of the guest cottage. Let us just say that I doubt you’ll have much trouble recruiting personnel. Perhaps members of the late Committee, eager to expiate their guilt …”

  Bruno and Boots exchanged agonized glances. Dishes until April!

  A smile of triumph almost made its way to the surface of Mr. Sturgeon’s calm. The Committee might well be the most awesome force since the neutron bomb, but he was still Headmaster.

  Be sure to read the next hilarious Macdonald Hall adventure:

  Chapter 1

  Hank the Tank

  A lone figure stood beneath the tall scoreboard, arms crossed, glaring. The Macdonald Hall football stadium, brand-new and immaculate, stretched before him, taking up most of the large lawn north of the Faculty Building. Frowning, Bruno Walton sat down in the first row of bleachers.

  “Hey, Bruno!” Boots O’Neal came sprinting across the campus from the direction of the dormitories. He pulled to a stop in front of his long-time roommate and friend, and held out his hand. “How was your summer?”

  Bruno didn’t seem to notice the greeting. “Well,” he said, shaking his head, “somebody really blew it this time. I mean, what is this?”

  “It’s a football field,” said Boots. “What do you think it is?”

  “I know what it is, and it isn’t what it’s supposed to be. We put in for a rec hall, remember?”

  Boots sighed. “Bruno, when a guy gives big money to a school, he has the right to say what it’s going to be used for. Be happy. This is a great stadium. Look at that scoreboard. I bet even the pro teams don’t have a better one.”

  “We made a formal proposal,” said Bruno steadily. “This Carson guy gave the money to the school. We’re the school.”

  “We’re two guys,” Boots amended.

  “We handed in a petition with hundreds of names,” said Bruno hotly.

  “And we wrote every single one of them,” Boots added.

  “It took us all night! It’s not easy making those signatures look different. Besides, there’s no way The Fish could know we did it.”

  “Not unless he read the names and tried to find Godzilla McMurphy on the student list.”

  “Look,” said Bruno in exasperation, “we couldn’t be expected to remember the names of seven hundred guys. We’re the victims, Boots! They took our rec hall money and built the Rose Bowl! We don’t even have a football team! When The Fish hears about this, heads will roll!”

  Boots had to laugh. “The Fish notices when your grades go down two percent. He probably already knows there’s a football stadium outside his office window. Come on, Bruno. We haven’t seen each other for two months. Hello. How are you?”

  Finally Bruno grinned sheepishly, and the two shook hands. “Sorry. It’s just that I was planning to lounge out in the rec hall tonight, maybe play a couple of games of Ping-Pong, and watch some tube on the wide-screen TV. This is quite a shock, Boots!”

  Boots pointed to the three large duffle bags sitting by the 40-yard line. “Let me guess. You got right off the bus and came here. You didn’t even take your stuff to our room. Here, I’ll give you a hand.” He walked over to
the field and slung one bag over his shoulder.

  Bruno picked up the other two, but dropped them immediately, his face wreathed in smiles. “Look!” He pointed to a second-storey window in the Faculty Building. “There’s The Fish! He still looks pretty good for such an old guy.”

  “He looks like he always looks,” said Boots, “like he’s putting someone on dishwashing duty for fifty years.” He gazed nervously up to the window at William R. Sturgeon, Headmaster of Macdonald Hall. Even from a distance he could make out the steely grey eyes. The Headmaster’s nickname, The Fish, was more than just a play on his name, because when Mr. Sturgeon looked at a boy through his metal-rimmed spectacles, it was a cold, fishy stare. Boots had been on the receiving end of that look too many times.

  “Come on, Boots. The Fish is almost like a buddy of ours after all we’ve been through together. Why, I’ll bet he’s spent more time with us than any other guys in the whole school.”

  “That’s because we’re in trouble more than any other guys in the whole school. Bruno, this can be the year where we see as little of our buddy The Fish as possible. We keep our noses clean and have a great time.”

  But his words were wasted on Bruno’s receding back. Bruno stepped up to the base of the building, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called, “Hello, sir! Down here!”

  Mr. Sturgeon’s head emerged from the second-floor window. The Headmaster regarded Bruno and then Boots a cautious distance behind him. “Good day, Walton — O’Neal. Welcome back.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “So, Mr. Sturgeon —” Bruno began. “What’s new?”

  “The staff and I are looking forward to the upcoming academic year,” the Headmaster replied briskly. “And no doubt you have noticed our new football facility. It is quite outstanding. Now, if you boys don’t mind, there are many things to which I must attend.”

  “Well, there is one thing Boots — uh, Melvin — and I are concerned about. Sir, do you remember the petition we gave you last year along with the plan for our new rec hall?”