Macdonald Hall #2: Go Jump in the Pool

Impresario at work

Mr. Sturgeon stepped away from the teller's cage, followed by Bruno and Boots. The Headmaster handed Bruno a new, gold-coloured bankbook.

"Here it is," he said. "$703.15, registered to your signatures in trust for Macdonald Hall. It is a great responsibility, and I hope you will look after it with care."

"Of course, sir," promised Boots.

The three left the bank and climbed into the Headmaster's blue Plymouth for the trip back to school.

"Sir," Bruno announced as they got under way, "we have another great plan for raising money."

Mr. Sturgeon's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "I suspected it wouldn't take you very long," he remarked grimly. "Would you be so good as to outline the nature of this plan, and I shall determine whether or not it is great."

"It's a talent show, sir," said Bruno eagerly. "We'll audition anyone who wants to try out."

"And the tickets will be a dollar apiece," Boots added.

Mr. Sturgeon examined the proposal from every possible angle. It seemed harmless enough, even though it came from Bruno and Boots.

"I think I might give permission for that," he said grudgingly. "Perhaps the parents would like to be invited."

"At five bucks a head," Bruno added with growing enthusiasm.

"Walton," Mr. Sturgeon said gently, "if the parents take the time and expense to attend this affair, they should be admitted at the going rate."

Visions of dollar signs vanished from Bruno's imagination. "Right, sir," he agreed sadly.

"Do you think maybe, sir, we could combine with Miss Scrimmage's school for the show?" Boots ventured timidly.

"That's a swell idea!" exclaimed Bruno, who had put his roommate up to suggesting it in the first place. "The more people, the more talent!" Both boys eyed their Headmaster expectantly.

Mr. Sturgeon was silent. Memories of his last telephone conversation with Miss Scrimmage danced crazily through his mind. She was probably still angry and would doubtless refuse to allow her school to participate. Holding that hope, he said, "Very well. I shall take it up with Miss Scrimmage."

"Then we have your permission to begin auditions?" Bruno asked excitedly.

Mr. Sturgeon nodded a wary nod.

* * *

The door of room 107, Chris Talbot's room, burst open and in barged Bruno and Boots, unannounced and uninvited. In the centre of the room stood Chris, wrapped in a towel. His roommate, a freshman, cowered in terror at his desk.

"Don't worry," Chris assured him kindly. "They're harmless. They just never learned to knock." He greeted the intruders with an elaborate sweep of his hand. "Don't be shy. Come right in."

Bruno flopped down on the nearest bed and sniffed the air. "What stinks in here?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"It isn't in here," Chris explained patiently. "That lunatic next door is disinfecting his room."

"Sterilizing," Boots corrected. "That's George Wexford-Smyth III, my old roommate. He does this every forty-eight hours."

"He must use a lot of spray," said the freshman. "It sure smells strong."

"Oh, George won't use aerosol propellant — not since the warnings were published. If he destroys the ozone layer," Boots explained, "the ultra-violet rays from the sun will get him. He doesn't spray the room. He washes it. All of it."