Macdonald Hall #6: Lights, Camera, Disaster!

A Cry in the Woods

Miss Scrimmage's driving would have earned her the pole position at the Indianapolis 500, so by nine o'clock the next morning, the Baking Club was burning northeast on highway 11, heading for route 60, which led to Algonquin Park.

The Headmistress glanced in the rearview mirror at the five girls riding with her in the school's minivan. "Everybody cheery and comfortable?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Scrimmage!" raved Cathy. "I'm so glad I joined the Baking Club!"

Miss Scrimmage smiled happily. "Mind you, you look awfully crowded back there. I still don't understand why everyone brought so much luggage. It's only a short trip."

The girls exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Their large suitcases concealed sleeping bags and other camping gear. Maybe Miss Scrimmage was going to Montreal, but they were heading for Jordie Jones.

Miss Scrimmage whizzed past a tractor trailer at nearly double the speed limit. "How odd," she frowned, gearing down. "None of these signs mention Montreal. I hope we haven't taken a wrong turn." She consulted her directions (revised and retyped by Cathy the night before). "Well, this is the road, all right. Very strange."

"Tell us again about proper manners in an authentic French pastry shop," suggested Diane.

"An excellent idea!" the Headmistress agreed, accelerating. "Of course, we'll be ordering in French, and the pronunciation of the letter r is crucial. Montreal waiters can be merciless on pronunciation. Why, I remember once..."

***

When Mr. Sturgeon stepped out of his cottage that morning, none of his students would have recognized him. He had traded in his usual conservative gray business suit for baggy khaki dungarees, held up by elastic suspenders, which stretched tightly over his thick red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt. The boots on his feet laced halfway to the knees, and on his head perched a fur-lined leather hunting cap with earflaps. Only his steel-rimmed glasses gave away the fact that this was the stern, dignified Headmaster of Macdonald Hall.

He got into his car and started the engine, then ripped the hunting cap from his head and tossed it on the seat beside him. A glance towards home showed his wife in the picture window, shaking her finger at him. With a sigh, he replaced the cap.

He started off slowly down the crowded driveway. Delivery trucks with coffee and donuts were already beginning to arrive for the awakening reporters. He hadn't set one tire on the highway yet, and already he was in a traffic jam.

He was about to pull out onto the road when a voice cried, "Wait! Wait! You can't go yet!" A streak of white overtook the car from the left side, and leaped out in front. Goose Golden, toupee askew, pressed both hands against the hood of the Plymouth, as though he expected to keep Mr. Sturgeon off the highway by brute force.

The Headmaster rolled down his window. "What is it, Golden? I'm in a hurry."

"Take me with you!" the manager begged.

"Whatever for? I'm only going down the road for a quart of milk." Even as the words came out of his mouth, he felt an utter fool. No one shopped for milk dressed like a reject from Field and Stream.

"You're going for J. J.!" said Golden urgently. "I have to come with you!" Even as Mr. Sturgeon was opening his mouth to refuse, the agent lunged for the passenger door, wrenched it open, and parked himself on the bench seat, buckling his safety belt. He gave the Headmaster an ingratiating smile. "Nice hat. I've always wanted one of those."

"Kindly leave my car, Golden."

The manager crossed his arms. "J.J. needs me!"

Mr. Sturgeon grimaced. "You're not exactly dressed for a wilderness trek. Please go about your business, and allow me to go about mine."