“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-rai
sing 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?”
“I most certainly will not!” Mr. Sturgeon exclaimed.
“But, sir! He’s a long shot! We’ll profit —”
“That will be quite enough, Walton. And you too, O’Neal. This money was paid to you in good faith by people who believed they were helping a pool fund. You cannot misappropriate it for purposes of gambling. I do not approve of gambling.”
“Oh, well then,” stammered Bruno, “we’ll just have to think of something else.”
Mr. Sturgeon stood up. “You said three ideas,” he pointed out. “Yet you have mentioned only two. What is the third?”
“Oh, you’d hate it, sir,” said Boots earnestly.
“Nevertheless, I think I’d like to hear it.”
“Well, sir,” Bruno began, “I thought we could have a Monte Carlo night. Nothing big, you understand — just a little blackjack, roulette, maybe a craps table or two —”
“Out!” thundered Mr. Sturgeon. “Good day.”
* * *
Boots put the finishing touches on the chicken sandwiches while Bruno stirred the lemonade.
“Have you finished the letter to your folks yet?” Bruno asked.
“Oh yes,” Boots assured him. “This time it was all about a French class that was très fantastique. To me, they’re all about as subtle as a train wreck. I said my father was an athlete, not a musclehead.”
“Keep it up,” ordered Bruno, “or your next letter home is going to be postmarked York Academy.”
“Yes, I know,” said Boots. “Gobble, gobble.”
“The girls should be here soon.” Bruno yawned. “It’s after midnight.”
As if in reply, several small pebbles sailed in through the open window and landed in the lemonade. A voice from outside exclaimed, “Oops,” and there was high-pitched giggling.
Bruno and Boots rushed to the window and hauled Cathy and Diane over the sill.
“Shhh!” Boots whispered frantically. “We have a Housemaster!”
Cathy nodded. “What’s for eats? I’m starved!”
“Chicken sandwiches,” said Boots.
“And lemonade on the rocks,” added Bruno. “Your signal landed in the drink.”
There was more giggling, followed by a sharp rapping at the door. “Walton — O’Neal — you sound like a couple of girls in there! Pipe down and go to sleep!”
When they were finished eating, Cathy handed over the lottery ticket. “Your number is 41965,” she told them. “And I hope you win. We met some turkeys from York Academy in town today. They are just impossible about beating you in the swim meet!”
“Aren’t you glad you kicked one of them?” Diane said with a grin.
“I guess we may as well tell you,” Bruno said, “that there’s a good chance Boots might end up in York Academy because of their athletic program.”
Cathy slapped both hands over her mouth to suppress the screech of protest that rose from her throat. “But — but you’d be a turkey!” she managed to whisper in Boots’s face.
“Yeah, well, we’re working on it,” Boots replied.
“Cathy, we can’t stay much longer,” Diane said nervously.
Cathy nodded. “We’d better split,” she agreed. She turned to Bruno and Boots. “When you win the lottery, can we come swimming in your pool?”
“Only if you make your bathing suits in sewing class,” Bruno grinned.
Bruno and Boots helped the girls back out over the sill and watched until they disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 8
Jingle Fever
“This contest thing,” grumbled Boots, “is costing us fifty G’s in postage alone.”
“Toss me another one of those entry forms for the Sudso Detergent Cash Giveaway,” said Bruno. “We’re bound to win if we enter enough of them.”
“Cool Cola! Snuggums Longjohns! Sudso Detergent! Bibble Bubble Gum!” snorted Boots. “This is insanity!”
“It’s this kind of insanity that’s going to keep people like you out of places like York Academy,” Bruno retorted. “We’ve got to win something. Two whole campuses are heart and soul into this campaign.”
That was true. Every magazine and comic book was ripped to shreds as students searched for entry forms. Cold cereal was enjoying an unprecedented popularity at breakfast so that more boxtops would be available. Macdonald Hall’s outgoing mail filled ten sacks instead of the usual two. Students were occupied with praising products in fifty words or less, and inventing catchy jingles to sell everything from toilet paper to limousines.
“I’ve got it!” Bruno exclaimed. “Listen to this:
Cool Cola tastes just great,
Buy a bottle, maybe eight.
If you really like the stuff,
You can never get enough.
How about that, eh?”
“Maybe eight?” Boots repeated. “What about all those numbers in between? You know, like sevens, twos, fours.”
“None of them rhyme with ‘great,’” said Bruno. “I’m sending it in. It’s a cinch.”
There was a polite knock at the door. “Am I interrupting anything?” came the timid voice of Elmer Drimsdale.
“Oh, nothing much,” called Boots sarcastically. “Only the greatest jingle ever to sell a bottle of pop — or maybe eight. Come on in.”
Elmer entered the room. “Could you please spare an entry blank for the Cool Cola jingle contest?” he requested. “I think I’ve come up with the winner.”
“A tie!” crowed Boots. “We have a tie! Let’s hear it.”
Elmer cleared his throat:
“Caffeine for your addled pate,
Carbohydrates for your weight,
Make your thorax palpitate —
Get Cool Cola by the crate.”
Without a wor
d Bruno handed over an entry blank and Elmer rushed off to complete it.
The scene was similar that evening in many Macdonald Hall rooms. In 107, Chris Talbot was labouring over a piece of paper.
“Hmmm. Let’s see,” he said slowly. “I eat Snappy Wappies for breakfast because …”
“They taste like sawdust,” finished his roommate.
“Well, yes, they do,” Chris admitted, “but I can’t put that. So I’ll put that they’re delicious and they set me up for the whole day. That should win me something.”
* * *
Pete Anderson leaned back in his chair and surveyed his work with great satisfaction. “I’ve just completed a hundred and nineteen entries for the Happy Elephant Jellybean contest,” he announced to his roommate. “It’s that count the jellybeans in the jar thing. Surely one of my guesses has to be right.”
“Mmmm,” said his roommate absently. “What rhymes with refrigerator?”
* * *
“Listen to this!” said Mark Davies to Louis Brown.
“What a shine from Gleam-o Wax!
It really takes those hits and whacks.
You couldn’t scratch it with an axe!
Three dollars ten, including tax.”
“Pretty good,” admitted Louis, “but naturally it’s not a match for this:
Use a Smith foot-odour pad,
And your feet won’t smell so bad.”
“That’s touching,” said Mark. “Very touching.”
* * *
On construction, wrote Sidney Rampulsky, you should always wear a hard hat because if someone drops a brick on your head and you’re not wearing a hard hat you could die.
* * *
“I think I’ve come up with something honest and refreshing,” said Wilbur Hackenschleimer to his roommate. “It’s for the Whippo Cheese Spread contest. Listen: I love Whippo Cheese Spread because it’s food and anything that’s food is okay by me. Hey, why are you laughing? What’s so funny?”
* * *
I like Azgard Soap because it gets you so clean that you don’t have to take another stupid bath for a month, wrote Marvin Trimble.
“A month? Boy, I’m putting in for another roommate!”
* * *
Perry Elbert was poetic. He wrote: