Go Jump in the Pool!

by Gordon Korman

  Elmer was cheered as Mr. Snow presented him with his ten-dollar prize.

  “Our other runner-up is Mrs. Sturgeon for her excellent photograph of a Jack-in-the-box going off in Mr. Sturgeon’s face.”

  As this was a very popular entry, the ovation was tremendous.

  “And our twenty-five-dollar grand prize goes to Catherine Burton for her photograph of Miss Scrimmage, which I will not attempt to describe and do not presume to understand. I only know that it is the funniest thing I have ever seen.”

  Screaming all the way, Cathy collected her prize. At Pete’s suggestion, one of the jellybean crates was opened and the students helped themselves. The funny photo contest was over.

  * * *

  “Dear Mom and Dad,” Boots read aloud from his letter.

  This is the best school year of my life. Yesterday I got an A+ on my English composition. It was entitled “Why I Love Macdonald Hall.” Not only that, but in math I learned how to bisect an angle without even using a protractor.

  I’m really glad that we’re starting to have more health food in the cafeteria. I love wheat-germ muffins. Good eating is part of our training program for when the pool is ready.

  Joyfully yours,

  Melvin.

  “Very good,” Bruno approved. “You keep your folks happy and I keep raising money — and we’ll both be at Macdonald Hall forever.”

  Chapter 10

  Is This Considered Our Fault?

  “According to Elmer Drimsdale, sir,” said Bruno, “we have $5,101.80. Elmer says that’s 10.2036% of what we need, leaving us still to collect $44,898.20.”

  Mr. Sturgeon smiled. “I would not presume to question the calculations of Elmer Drimsdale. Well, boys, I find it remarkable that you have actually managed to raise ten percent of the money in so short a time. And that does not include Anderson’s jellybeans. A truck arrived this morning with another thirty kilograms of them, representing second and third prizes in the Happy Elephant contest. One can only hope that none of the other students were quite as thorough as the Anderson boy.”

  “Well, sir,” said Bruno reflectively, “every little bit helps. They say the first ten percent is the hardest. The other ninety should come easy as pie.”

  There was a low moan from Boots.

  Mr. Sturgeon settled back in his chair. “May I take that to mean you have another brilliant scheme on the drawing board?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bruno eagerly. “You see, we have lots of really good workers, but the ideas are coming only from Melvin and me. I was thinking of something like an Individual Effort Day when anyone from either school could set up a booth and make money any way he or she wanted.”

  “It would be really great, sir,” Boots added as he felt Bruno’s elbow in his ribs. “There would be a lot more kids participating.”

  “And we’d make a fortune,” Bruno concluded.

  Mr. Sturgeon thought it over. He had checked with the teachers and had been assured that all students were maintaining their standards. As a matter of fact, grades were a little higher and the number of misdemeanors lower. None of the students wanted to be assigned extra tutoring or punishment for fear of missing something to do with the fund-raising campaign. All things considered, the campaign had been very good for the school.

  “I shall allow an Individual Effort Day,” the Headmaster said at last. “However, you two will be the judges of what is and is not suitable. You are aware of the standards of Macdonald Hall. What date do you have in mind?”

  “A week from Saturday, sir,” said Bruno. “That gives everybody ten days to prepare.”

  “All right, then. Good day.”

  * * *

  For the next ten days, Macdonald Hall became the strangest place around. The boys hardly talked to each other for fear of accidentally giving away their plans to someone else. Posters advertising Individual Effort Day were all over the Hall and Miss Scrimmage’s too. The wood shop vibrated to the sounds of hammers and saws building booths and mysterious contraptions. Out of Elmer Drimsdale’s room came strange noises. A whole new lingo sprang up.

  “Get out of my room and close the door behind you!”

  “Who took my monkey wrench?”

  “That’s my history notes you just poured all that grease on!”

  “What the heck is Drimsdale doing?”

  “If you steal my idea, I’ll hit you with this board!”

  “Turn up the radio so Kevin won’t be able to hear what we’re saying!”

  “It took me five days to build what you just sat on!”

  “Oh no! It collapsed!”

  “Elmer, come out of there!”

  A great deal of spying took place, and a great deal of counter-espionage as well. Outside Sidney Rampulsky’s room, Pete Anderson was caught lurking in the bushes with a periscope. He got a crutch over the head for his efforts. When Mark Davies opened his closet door one night, there stood Perry Elbert with notepad, pencil and guilty face. Wilbur Hackenschleimer received a nasty black eye while peering through the keyhole into Rob Adams’s room. Rob threw open the door too suddenly for Wilbur to get out of the way.

  The only boy untroubled by the spying was Elmer Drimsdale. Before starting on his project Elmer had effectively booby-trapped all entrances to his room, and everyone knew about it. Bruno, mostly out of curiosity, had tried to get inside and could attest to the fact that room 201 was a fortress. At the window he was sprayed with water and hopelessly tangled in a net. At the door he received a jarring electric shock.

  With the responsibility for law and order resting on their shoulders, Bruno and Boots were greatly relieved when the big day finally arrived.

  * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. Sturgeon stepped out onto their front porch into the warm autumn sunshine.

  “William, did you bring money?”

  “Yes, Mildred,” her husband replied. “I’m beginning to feel that I am personally supplying the pool fund.”

  “Must you always be so cranky about everything?” she sighed. “The boys and girls have worked so hard for all this. Let’s enjoy it.”

  The first booth they came to was operated by Mark Davies, who was doing a big business. A sign proclaimed: Your Name in the Headlines — $1. Using the Hall’s newspaper printing press, Mark was printing custom headlines. As the Headmaster watched, Chris walked away well pleased with his headline, which said, Christopher Talbot Spends 10 Days Locked in Meat Freezer. Mrs. Sturgeon finally emerged from the line carrying a newspaper which read: William R. Sturgeon Wins Heavyweight Championship. She was giggling. He knew right then and there that she was planning to spend money at every single booth so that no one would feel left out.

  They stopped to buy some cookies from Diane Grant, who was in charge of a baked-goods booth. “Scrim-cookies, no doubt,” Mr. Sturgeon commented.

  “Why, how did you know, sir?” exclaimed Diane.

  “Lucky guess,” smiled the Headmaster.

  Next they came upon a display called Sponge Throw. Boots O’Neal was sitting on a chair with a bucket full of wet sponges in front of him. Six metres away stood Bruno Walton, behind a sheet of plywood. Bruno’s head peeped through a hole in the wood.

  “Would you like to try, sir?” Boots asked. “For a dime you can throw a sponge at Bruno.”

  Mr. Sturgeon instantly produced two quarters. “I’ll start with five,” he said, positively grinning. With a swift overhand motion, he threw five direct hits that left Bruno sputtering. “I played a little cricket at university,” he explained with great satisfaction.

  “Wow!” said Boots admiringly. “I’m glad it was Bruno’s turn instead of mine.”

  “Oh?” said Mr. Sturgeon. “You are to have a turn too? In that case, I shall be back.”

  As the Headmaster stepped out of the way, Perry Elbert was next in line. Perry handed Boots two dollars. He did not ask for change.

  The Headmaster and his wife went along stopping at every display. Mr. Sturgeon had his caricature done at Chris
Talbot’s booth, and was a little shocked to see how cold and stern his eyes were. Mrs. Sturgeon bought a bouquet of paper flowers from some of Miss Scrimmage’s girls. They each paid the quarter entry fee and went in to view Marvin Trimble’s rock collection.

  They had just bought lemonade from two boys when they heard a familiar scream.

  Mr. Sturgeon nudged his wife. “It’s Miss Scrimmage. She’s in there.” He pointed to a tent with a sign on it that announced, Cathy’s Chamber of Horrors. As they approached, Cathy Burton came out of the tent leading a hysterical Miss Scrimmage.

  “They weren’t real snakes, Miss Scrimmage,” the girl was saying. “And the great white shark was just an illusion. It’s all right. Really it is. You’re safe now.”

  Eventually Miss Scrimmage calmed down and joined the Sturgeons on their tour of the grounds.

  By far the most popular booth was Elmer Drimsdale’s. The most carefully guarded secret of the whole affair turned out to be an enormous coin-operated pinball machine.

  “Oh, look, William! Isn’t that marvellous!” exclaimed Mrs. Sturgeon. “You must play it!”

  “I consider it gambling, Mildred,” her husband replied primly. “I do not approve of any form of gambling.”

  Mrs. Sturgeon slapped a quarter into his hand and pushed him up to Elmer’s wonderful machine. “Don’t be a fuddy-duddy!” she whispered. “Play!”

  Mr. Sturgeon inserted the quarter and the machine sprang to life. Bells rang, lights flashed and the ball sped around the board.

  Twenty minutes and many quarters later, Mrs. Sturgeon approached her husband. “William,” she said in a low tone. “You’re hogging the machine. There’s a long line-up behind you.”

  Mr. Sturgeon did not even turn around. “There is an art to pinball, Mildred,” he said abstractedly as he operated the flippers. “It requires complete concentration. If you hadn’t disturbed me, I would have won a free game.”

  “Oh, come away from there!” she exclaimed, dragging him off by the arm. “There’s so much more to see.”

  Miss Scrimmage paid fifty cents for a grab-bag package which turned out to be a complete set of bubble gum cards covering the 2002 World Series. She kindly assured the worried vendor that she was perfectly satisfied with her prize. “After all,” she said, “I have been a Mario Lemieux fan for years.”

  Wilbur Hackenschleimer was doing very well as inventor and operator of the afternoon’s only ride. This consisted of a padded barrel at the top of a small hill. The rider would climb into the barrel and Wilbur would roll it down the hill into a pit of sand. The only mishap of the day occurred when the rider, Coach Flynn, sneezed in transit and put the barrel off course. It missed the sand pit, rolled across the lawn, bounced over the ditch, hurtled across the highway where it narrowly missed collision with a sightseeing bus, and came to rest in Miss Scrimmage’s chrysanthemum bed. An enthusiastic Mr. Flynn emerged from the barrel to find, to his amazement, that Individual Effort Day was gone. Had it ended during his ride? He was set straight when Wilbur rushed up, concerned for the safety of his barrel.

  Mr. Sturgeon became annoyed watching his wife and Miss Scrimmage throw dimes into a saucer attempting to win a prize. He nudged them aside. “Here is how it is done,” he said quietly. He threw and missed. Missed again. And again. “I am going to do it,” he said between clenched teeth, “if I have to spend two hundred dollars!” It only cost him four. His prize was a huge gift-wrapped carton which he was obliged to lug around for the remainder of the afternoon.

  They paid fifty cents each to see a puppet show run by two Macdonald Hall boys. It was about a wicked Headmaster who had a swimming pool and a nice Headmaster who didn’t. In the end, the king took the pool away from the wicked Headmaster and gave it to the nice one. The nice Headmaster and his nice boys lived happily ever after.

  Mr. Sturgeon was extremely amused. “The wicked Headmaster is Hartley of York Academy,” he explained to Miss Scrimmage.

  “Oh, and who is the nice Headmaster?” she asked innocently.

  Mrs. Sturgeon bought a sign hand-lettered by a talented associate of Chris Talbot:

  Don’t be a foole

  Support ye poole.

  The afternoon was drawing to a close and the Sturgeons, accompanied by Miss Scrimmage, began to wend their way towards home, when suddenly the Headmaster remembered his promise to return to the sponge throw. This time Bruno was taking money and Boots was the target. Mr. Sturgeon produced another quarter and picked up the first sponge.

  “Oh, this is violent,” said Miss Scrimmage. “I think I’ll go over and see how the bake table is doing.”

  Mr. Sturgeon wound up and caught Boots flush in the face.

  “Dead-ly!” Bruno cheered.

  Mr. Sturgeon reached for another sponge and took careful aim. Now that he had a reputation to protect, he did not want to miss. He brought his arm forward and let fly just as Miss Scrimmage wandered absent-mindedly into the line of fire. Splat! The sopping sponge hit her right on the side of the head.

  Bruno raced out with a towel and caught the teetering Miss Scrimmage.

  “Sir,” called Boots anxiously, “is this considered our fault?”

  “No,” said Mr. Sturgeon with just a trace of amusement in his voice. “I did that myself.” Determined to get his money’s worth, he threw three more direct hits at Boots.

  The crowd began to thin out and the booths began to close. Before the dinner bell rang, Individual Effort Day had drawn to a successful end.

  * * *

  Mr. Sturgeon struggled into the house with his enormous prize. “This had better be something good,” he said sourly. “It cost me four dollars.”

  “Well, open it, dear,” said his wife. “Let’s see what you won.”

  In an attempt to deposit the bulky package on the coffee table in the living room, Mr. Sturgeon lost his grip on it. It hit the floor with a bang. There was movement within the box, and suddenly a voice, muffled by the wrapping, said, “Hi there! My name is Jack!”

  “Mildred, how did this happen?”

  “I knew you hated it, William,” she explained, “so I gave it to the boys for Individual Effort Day.”

  “And I won it,” he said softly. “I won it again.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Take it away, Mildred,” the Headmaster ordered. “Put it where I won’t have to see it — or hear it — ever again!”

  * * *

  “Two thousand, eight hundred seventy-four dollars and seventy-eight cents!” exclaimed Bruno Walton to Boots and Elmer as he dropped the last penny into bucket number six. “That’s the best we’ve ever done!”

  Elmer produced a twenty-dollar bill. “The Cool Cola Company sent me this,” he said proudly. “It’s a special consolation prize. They said my jingle was the most unusual one in the history of the company.”

  “Here’s Sidney’s five dollars,” Boots put in, dropping a bill into the bucket. “It seems he coloured in the magic peanut in the ad for Ace Nuts.”

  Elmer looked thoughtful. “We now have $8,001.58, which is sixteen point —”

  “All right, Elmer,” Bruno cut in. “We know we’re still short. But wasn’t it a great day?”

  “It sure was,” said Boots. “Especially when Miss Scrimmage got hit by a wet sponge and The Fish couldn’t even blame it on us.”

  “I wonder,” mused Bruno, “if we couldn’t start building the pool now. We could give the builder our $8,001.58 as a down payment and pay off the rest later.”

  “Much later,” said Boots. “About two hundred years later.”

  “Before a mortgage company would consider your application,” said Elmer, “you would need to show a steady source of income. Presently, you are too much of a risk.”

  “Oh well, grab a couple of buckets, you guys,” ordered Bruno, not in the least discouraged. “Let’s get this money to The Fish for banking.” He grinned at Boots. “You’ve got a letter to write.”

  “Oh no!” moaned Boots. “Not another o
ne!”

  “Your parents haven’t heard yet about that fabulous history class you attended recently,” Bruno told him. “And if they don’t hear about it, it could mean the turkey farm.”

  “Let’s hurry,” Boots agreed.

  There was a loud crash at the door.

  “They’re here! They’re here! They’re here! I won!” someone cried. Bruno, Boots, and Elmer rushed out of the room to see what was going on. They were nearly trampled in a stampede.

  “I won!” cried the voice again. “They’re here with my refrigerator!”

  Bruno’s eyes met Boots’s. “Let’s go!”

  They dashed out of the dormitory, leaving a confused Elmer Drimsdale in charge of the money buckets.

  Chapter 11

  Lucky Donald McHall

  “We’re well over the eight thousand mark, sir,” said Bruno.

  “I have seen the figures in your bank statement,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “A dollar and fifty-eight cents over, isn’t it?”

  “Nine hundred and one dollars and fifty-eight cents,” Bruno said happily. “Mr. and Mrs. Stratton are buying Rob Adams’s refrigerator. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  Mr. Sturgeon leaned back. “The — uh — plenty more is what I have been wanting to discuss with you. Sit down, boys — no, not on the bench. The chairs will do.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “So far you have been extremely successful with your fund-raising. However, you must face the fact that most of the money is coming from the same pockets — those of our own students and staff. In the past week I have been receiving telephone calls and letters from many of the parents complaining that their sons are repeatedly sending home for more money. It simply will not do.”

  “But, sir,” argued Bruno, “a lot of the money from the rummage sale came from outside the school. And there’s the contest prizes. And then there’s Miss Scrimmage’s.”

  “Yes,” replied the Headmaster, “but the bulk of what you have came from the Macdonald Hall students. As for the contests, luck is a very fickle thing. You have been lucky, but you cannot seriously expect any more revenue from contests. The point that I am making is not open to argument, Walton. It is this: our own resources have been tapped and tapped again. I cannot allow it to go any further.”