Macdonald Hall #1: This Can't Be Happening at Macdonald Hall!

The cannon at midnight

Boots rose from his bed and silently checked George's solid-gold quartz crystal digital watch. Ten minutes to twelve. He had to hurry if he was going to be on time to meet Bruno. He scrambled into his dressing gown and eased the window open.

"Shut the window . . . pneumonia ... " groaned George in his sleep.

Boots climbed onto the sill and made the short drop to the ground. Crouching beside the building, he scanned the deserted campus. All clear so far. Keeping low and in the shadows, he stole towards the meeting place on the south lawn. He slipped into the bushes behind the cannon and whispered, "Bruno?"

No answer. No Bruno. 

Five long minutes passed. Boots had been nervous to start with, but now he was really worried. A few more minutes went by. He checked his own twelve dollar watch. It had stopped at quarter past nine.

Must be an omen, Boots thought, wrapping his cold feet in the tail of his dressing gown. That was when Bruno and I left our room.

A rustling in the bushes startled him. "Bruno?" he whispered. "What took you so long?"

When a fat brown jackrabbit burst from the woods and scampered across the lawn into the darkness, Boots drooped in despair. Suddenly a familiar voice chuckled, "Aha! Talking to a rabbit, eh?" 

"Where have you been?" Boots snapped. "I've been sitting here scared stiff!"

"Well," Bruno shrugged, "I thought we might be a bit hungry, so I stopped off at the kitchen and got us a little snack." He held out a huge brown bag. "Care for a sandwich?" 

He spread the contents of the bag between them. There was a loaf of bread, an entire delicatessen of cold meats, a package of sliced cheese, four apples, six oranges and two half-pint containers of chocolate milk.

Boots whistled admiringly. "Boy, with all this we could run away from school." Then he added wistfully, "And that's just what I feel like doing."

"That bad?" asked Bruno, slapping meat and cheese between two slices of bread.

"Worse!" exclaimed Boots. "You wouldn't believe it." He bit sadly into an apple. "George Wexford-Smyth III is a crackpot! The room is full of medicines and stock exchange charts. I can't keep my stuff in the bathroom because of all his pills and ointments, and I can't hang my clothes in the closet because the teletype machine takes up too much room."

"At least he isn't an ichthyologist whose world is the undersea world," Bruno countered. "Our bathtub is full of caviar. The ichthyologist is studying the crossbreeding of goldfish, and I am doomed never to have a bath again as long as I live with Elmer Drimsdale — and that won't be too long if I have anything to say about it."

Boots sighed. "That's just it. Unfortunately we have nothing to say about it."

"Well, we'll just have to do something, then," decided Bruno. "Are you kidding about the teletype machine?"

"Scouts' honour," said Boots, saluting. "I was just dropping off to sleep tonight when the big financier got a message from his broker. Magneco went down another two points. George is wiped out." 

"Oh, that's nothing," Bruno replied bitterly. "At least you've got just one roommate to put up with. I have about a thousand and I've already killed one — too bad it wasn't Elmer."

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Boots asked.

"Ants," said Bruno. "A metropolis of ants. Elmer is an entomologist. His world is the insect world." 

"He keeps ants?" Boots asked in disbelief.

Bruno nodded. "He not only keeps them; he exercises them. His queen was out for a stroll when I scrunched her."

"What are we going to do?" Boots wailed. "I don't think I can put up with another minute of George swallowing pills, gargling and spraying his nose. He won't let me open a window because of his sinuses and he wants to call me Melvin because nicknames are so vulgar! As for that teletype ... " He gestured despairingly with both hands, then reached for a slice of bread.

"Elmer's not really such a bad guy," mumbled Bruno with his mouth full, "but he sure isn't for me. Come to think of it, he isn't really for anybody — except maybe his ants and his goldfish. By the way, did I mention the fish tank? It bubbles d.ay and night." He yawned. "Listen, Boots, it's getting late. Between the two of us we should be able to figure some way out of this mess. Meet me here the same time tomorrow night."

"Right," answered Boots. "Hey, what'll we do with the rest of this food?"

Bruno stuffed the leftovers into the bag. "I'll shove it in the cannon," he decided. "Then we'll have an emergency supply."

"Just remember," Boots prodded, "you're always bragging that you have an answer for everything. This time you've got to deliver! We've got to find a way to ditch these guys and get back together again!"

"Don't worry," Bruno promised. "I'll think of something — Melvin."

"Very funny," Boots growled "Goodnight."

"Night."

A corner of the lunch bag, sticking out of the cannon's mouth, flapped silently in the darkness.