Go Jump in the Pool (8 page)

“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.

“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 word 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:

’Twas a dark and stormy night

And my heart was filled with fright
.

But everything turned out all right
,

I had my Sammy Norse night light
.

* * *

The contest fever carried across the road. Miss Scrimmage’s girls were hard at work filling in entry blanks and making up commercials.

“I’ve been using Fragrant Daisy Shampoo for forty years,”
read Cathy Burton,
“and never once have I had a speck of dandruff.”

“That’s ridiculous,” exclaimed Diane Grant. “You haven’t even been alive for forty years!”

“True,” said Cathy. “And it’s also true that I’ve never been a stock-car racer, but that didn’t stop me from saying how I use only XEQ Motor Oil. No matter what I have to say, Boots is staying right where he is!”

“Fine,” observed Diane. “And what if you win the contest and they come here looking for a racing driver? They’ll find out you’re not even old enough to have a licence.”

“That’s why I signed Miss Scrimmage’s name,” Cathy replied.

The thought of Miss Scrimmage piloting a racing car was too much. They collapsed into gales of laughter.

* * *

After a few days things settled down at Macdonald Hall, and most of the boys concerned themselves solely with academic matters. With the number of available contests dwindling, Bruno racked his brain for another money-raising project and Boots continued to write glowing letters home.

On Thursday morning, before breakfast, Boots opened the door of room 306 to admit the office messenger. There was a note for Bruno and an identical one for himself. They read:
You are invited to the Headmaster’s residence this afternoon at four o’clock to see photographs from the talent show. Cookies and milk will be served
. The signature was:
Mrs. Sturgeon
.

“She has to be the nicest person in the world,” Boots remarked, but there was no reply. Bruno never got up for breakfast.

When he got to the dining hall, Boots found that all the boys who had appeared in the talent show had received similar invitations, and all were as pleased as he was.

At four that afternoon the cast of the talent show appeared on Mrs. Sturgeon’s doorstep. Butterfingers Rampulsky tried to make himself small behind Wilbur. He was not quite sure that he hadn’t been called to account for throwing the eggs at Miss Scrimmage. But Mrs. Sturgeon was all smiles as she bustled them into her living room.

“Cookies and milk first,” she said brightly. “You’re all growing boys.”

The boys ate happily, although they were quiet and a little shy at being invited to the Headmaster’s home socially.

Mrs. Sturgeon produced a photo album from the drawer of a cabinet. “Gather around, boys, so everyone can see.” The pictures broke the ice and the boys were soon chattering and laughing easily.

“Hey, there’s Bruno! Look at that stupid grin!”

“Get a load of Hughie and Louie!”

“Look, Butterfingers, there you are just before you —”

“Don’t say it! I know what I did!”

“Look at Hackenschleimer’s muscles!”

“Wow! The Scrimmettes!”

The picture of the Amazing Frederick with his head in the fishtank got a big cheer, as did the sight of Boots being sawed in half by Marvin the Magnificent. There was even a picture of Elmer Drimsdale, his face all scrunched up, with an owl swooping down on him. This brought more hilarity to the group. But the biggest cheer of all came from the picture of the Headmaster of Macdonald Hall being attacked by his door prize.

Boots laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. “That would win first prize in any photo contest,” he declared.

Bruno looked thoughtful.

“Sir, we’d like to have a funny photo contest.”

Mr. Sturgeon smiled thinly. “If you two boys exhibited this kind of creative thinking in class, you would undoubtedly be the finest students in the country.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bruno.

“Actually, it wasn’t meant as a compliment,” the Headmaster replied. “However, before I give permission for this venture, I shall have to know all the details. For the talent show I was foolish enough to give you a free hand, and quite a few surprises cropped up.”

“For us too, sir,” put in Boots.

“I realize that you were not totally to blame. However — tell me about your funny photo contest.”

“Everyone from both schools can enter,” Bruno began, “at fifty cents per picture. We’ll display the entries on the wall in the dining hall.”

“Mark Davies has agreed to do the photo developing at cost price,” Boots continued. “And we’d like to ask Mr. Snow to judge the pictures and pick a winner and two runners-up.”

“We decided on cash prizes,” added Bruno. “Twenty-five dollars for the winner, and ten each for the other two.”

Mr. Sturgeon thought it over. It was fairly creative, it appeared harmless, and it seemed safe enough even for Miss Scrimmage. He knew that most of his boys had cameras, and fifty cents was very reasonable.

“I shall agree on two conditions,” he said finally. “One, that the school must lend cameras to those boys who do not have them and who wish to enter. And two, that all photographs accepted and displayed must be tasteful and suitable for an institution of learning.”

“Certainly, sir,” Bruno assured him.

“Then we have permission?” Boots asked.

“You have permission,” Mr. Sturgeon nodded. But when they left him he sat at his desk for a long time wondering if, perhaps, he were not getting a little soft.

* * *

When the door of room 107 burst open and Bruno and Boots barged in, Chris Talbot immediately reached for pad and pencil.

“What is it this time?” he asked wearily.

“A funny photo contest,” Bruno replied. He and Boots filled in all the details while Chris made notes.

“I want posters everywhere,” Bruno concluded. “Two for Scrimmage’s and six for us ought to do it. The date will be two weeks from Saturday.”

Bruno and Boots were about to leave when a sharp alarm sounded in the room next door.

Boots rolled his eyes. “That’s the closing bell on Wall Street. Time for George to check his investment portfolio. In a minute we’ll know if he’s up or down.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I never kid about George,” said Boots. “George is not funny.”

Sure enough, a peal of gleeful laughter could be heard through the wall.