The Wizzle War (9 page)

“Nothing that would interest you,” said Bruno, “so if you’re finished, I’ve got a lot to do.”

Oh, no! thought Boots. If he didn’t keep an eye on Bruno, his roommate could be expelled! Despite everything he had to keep his friend out of trouble.

“I — I want to join your committee.” Boots regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. This would only encourage Bruno to make more trouble!

Without saying a word Bruno got up off his bed and began to remove the masking tape that divided the room. An enormous grin split his face. “About ninety of us are meeting tonight.”

Boots smiled grudgingly. As a committee member, maybe he could maintain some control over his roommate.

* * *

Illuminated by moonlight, Bruno Walton stood up before the crowd of boys in the woods behind Macdonald Hall. Most of them had come against their better judgement. They were looking around nervously, asking each other if they knew the reason behind this secret meeting.

“The meeting will come to order,” said Bruno. Then, less formally, “Hi, guys. Glad you could make it.”

“What is this?” piped someone.

“This,” announced Bruno grandly, “is The Committee.”

“What committee?”

Bruno looked at them solemnly. “
The
Committee.”

“The Committee?”

“
The
Committee?”

“We’ll all be expelled. I’m leaving.”

There was general agreement, and some of the boys began to walk away.

“Wait!” pleaded Elmer.

“Hear us out, at least,” said Bruno. “If you don’t hear us out, we’ll all get mad. Have any of you ever seen Wilbur when he’s mad?”

“Okay, Bruno,” called someone impatiently, “let’s hear it.”

“The purpose of The Committee is to get rid of Wizzle,” began Bruno, “and —”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Instantly, the crowd was on Bruno’s side.

“I can’t stand that guy Wizzle!”

“He gave me so many demerits that I had to write lines!”

“He gave me so many lines I got demerits for not writing them!”

“I can never remember how to tie my tie. Should the little end be longer than the big end?”

“Wizzle confiscated my rock collection because it wasn’t making efficient use of space.”

“When no one was looking, I kicked his computer.”

“Good for you.”

“Okay,” said Bruno. “To signify that you’re with The Committee, I want you all to come up here and press this remote control button. It makes an earthquake at Wizzle’s house, so it’s kind of your initiation into the organization.”

One by one, the boys went up to Elmer’s remote control button and pressed it.

“Now,” said Bruno, “let me tell you about Operation
Shut-Up.”

Boots looked at him. “Operation Shut-Up?”

“Wouldn’t it be great if Wizzle couldn’t say anything?”

“Sure,” said Boots. “But how are we going to shut him up?”

“We’re not,” grinned Bruno. “We’re going to do the next best thing. We’re going to shut up his WizzleWare. Okay, listen carefully, guys …”

On Monday morning Mr. Wizzle had dark circles under his eyes. The earthquakes were getting worse. On Saturday night he could have sworn there had been a hundred little tremors, followed on Sunday night by a quake even bigger than before. On both nights he had been forced to abandon his cottage. After all, who knew just when the entire fault line might cave in completely? He winced. Every time he left the house in a big hurry, there was Mr. Sturgeon at his window. The man was getting to be a regular peeping Tom!

Mr. Wizzle suppressed a yawn. He’d been planning to analyze the teacher efficiency reports he’d been putting together. It was just a matter of printing them.

A flashing red light on the print console drew his eye. “Out of paper,” said Wizzle aloud. How strange! He was certain he had loaded the tray only Friday. He glanced at the spare box on the floor. Empty. This was impossible. It had been full on Friday afternoon! He went down the hall, took out his master key and unlocked the supply room door. He walked in and opened up a new box of ink-jet paper. There inside the carton sat twelve rolls of toilet paper. He opened another box: more toilet paper. And another. All the boxes were filled with toilet paper. Furious, he opened a carton marked
Toilet Paper
. Well, that at least was correct.

Mr. Wizzle stormed to his office telephone and dialled the number of Systems Supply Ltd., the office outlet he dealt with.

“This is Walter C. Wizzle at Macdonald Hall … Not Wuzzle, Wizzle … Listen, where is my ink-jet paper? … Yes, I know the order has been completed. You sent me toilet paper … What do you mean, you don’t handle toilet paper? You handled ten boxes in my direction … Yes, while you’re looking into it, get me a rush order for another ten boxes. And make sure it’s ink-jet paper this time, will you? I have a great deal of reports to print … Yes, I guess noon will be soon enough. Thank you.”

Standing outside the door, Larry Wilson, office messenger and committee member, smiled to himself. Operation Shut-Up had sidelined Mr. Wizzle at least until noon. And now that they knew a truck was coming …

At 12:05 the truck from Systems Supply Ltd. pulled up in front of the Faculty Building. Chris Talbot rushed out to meet it.

“Hi,” he said. “Ink-jet paper? Great. Just drop it off at that building there — yeah, the sign says Dormitory 3. They’re waiting for you.”

The truck moved along to Dormitory 3 and delivered Mr. Wizzle’s printer paper into the eager hands of Bruno, Boots and Wilbur. With a flourish Bruno signed the delivery ticket and the driver left.

“You didn’t sign Mr. Wizzle’s name, did you?” asked Boots nervously as the three boys began to stack the paper up against the wall of room 306, along with the paper they had taken earlier from the stock room.

“Of course not,” said Bruno. “I signed
G. Gavin Gunhold
.
He’s the shipper-receiver around here.”

“That’s the last of them,” said Wilbur. “Let’s go eat lunch.”

At two o’clock Walter C. Wizzle was on the phone again. “Hello, This is Wizzle again … No, not Wuzzle, Wizzle! … I’m calling about those ten boxes of computer paper you promised would be here by noon. Where are they? … You can’t have a signed delivery slip, because I never got the delivery … G. Gavin Gunhold? There is no G. Gavin Gunhold here! You delivered my paper to the wrong place! … All right, look into it. But in the meantime ship me ten more boxes as soon as possible … All right, four o’clock is fine.”

Okay, thought Larry Wilson outside the door, four o’clock is fine.

The Systems Supply Ltd. truck came driving up the highway just after 4 PM. It was about a kilometre from the school when Mark Davies stepped out into its path, waving frantically. The truck pulled over onto the soft shoulder and the driver got out.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Mark, “but have you got a monkey wrench I can borrow? There’s something wrong with my bicycle.” Actually, it was Coach Flynn’s bicycle, and Bruno and Boots had taken off the front wheel.

“Sure thing. I’ve got a whole tool box. Maybe I can give you a hand.”

As he laboured with Mark over the dismantled bike, he failed to see Bruno, Boots and a Committee Task Force removing ten cartons from the back of the truck and replacing them with ten of their own. By the time Flynn’s wheel was back on, the switch was complete and everyone was hidden away.

Mr. Wizzle eagerly opened up one of the cartons that had just
arrived.

“Toilet paper! They did it again!” In a rage, he rushed to the telephone. “Hello, this is Wizzle … No, not Wuzzle, Wizzle! … I just received my order and you gave me toilet paper again! … Yes, I know you don’t sell it, but that’s what you sent me! Have you people gone crazy? … Well, I want some of the right paper now. I will personally drive over there and pick it up … What do you mean you’re all out of ink-jet paper? … Yes, I know some guy ordered twenty boxes just today! But I never got a single sheet of it! … All right, all right, all right! I’ll call back tomorrow. Do what you can for me, will you? Good-bye.” He hung up emphatically. Now that was just peachy! No paper!

* * *

“The parade was just the beginning,” announced Miss Peabody at the assembly. “You girls still need some excitement and exertion. You need to experience the thrill of dropping into bed at night feeling completely fatigued. You need the exhilaration of competition!”

An uneasy murmur ran through the gym. Miss Scrimmage shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

In the seventh row, Cathy and Diane looked at each other in desperation. Now what was Peabody up to?

“I’ve ordered three hundred water pistols and a whole load of food colouring,” Miss Peabody went on with growing enthusiasm. “We’re going to have war games.”

Miss Scrimmage gave an audible gasp and reached in her purse for her smelling salts.

The girls stared at the Assistant Headmistress, mute with
shock. Of all the things they had been sent to finishing school for, war games were the last on the list.

“My goodness!” blurted Miss Scrimmage in a high state of nerves. “Water pistols! Food colouring! War games! It all seems so — unladylike!”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Miss Peabody. “It isn’t ladylike — it’s war! And it develops vital skills like speed, agility and strategic planning — skills these girls will need someday — all in a spirit of healthy competition. Blue and White Squadrons against Red and Green Squadrons, fighting with harmless weapons to occupy the orchard. We’ll put some backbone into these jellyfish! And by the way, the winning army gets a weekend trip with Miss Scrimmage.”

“A whole weekend!” whispered Cathy. “Forty-eight hours without Peabody! This we win!”

“That’s what you said last time,” Diane whispered back.

“Shhh. I’m planning strategy.”

* * *

Coming from the Faculty Building, Bruno Walton walked directly to Dormitory 1. Now he had fifty-six demerits and four hundred lines. This was a job for The Committee’s Lines Department. He approached the door of room 114 and gave the secret knock.

“Lines Department,” came Mark Davies’ voice. “How may we help you?”

The door swung open and Bruno was treated to the sight of efficiency at its best. The room was full of boys seated at desks and tables, industriously writing lines.

Bruno whistled in admiration. He filled out:

NAME:
Bruno Walton

POSITION IN THE COMMITTEE:
President

NUMBER OF LINES:
400

SAMPLE OF HANDWRITING:
Wizzle must go!
(Bruno scrawled this in his usual unintelligible hand.)

PICK-UP DATE:
Friday Morning

“Gee,” said Mark, “that’s pretty soon for all those lines. But we’ll see what we can do.” He placed Bruno’s application on a stack of many others. “We’re really busy here.”

“You’re doing a great job,” said Bruno. “See you.”

* * *

Mr. Sturgeon walked into his kitchen and looked around hopefully. “Where’s dinner, Mildred? Haven’t you started it yet?”

“It’s all ready, dear. It’s in the refrigerator.”

“Well, hadn’t you better heat it up?”

“No, it’s a cold dinner. We’re having a big salad and some other vegetable dishes.”

The Headmaster’s face fell. “Oh, no. You’ve invited Wizzle. How many times do I have to tell you how much I dislike that young man?”

“Oh, William! You’re Headmaster and you have social responsibilities. I’ve also invited Miss Scrimmage and Miss Peabody.”

Mr. Sturgeon groaned. “Your timing is off, Mildred. You should invite Miss Peabody when you’re serving raw meat.”

“Now that’s enough, William,” said his wife sternly. “This
time I want you to be genuinely sociable. Your attitude toward others leaves a great deal to be desired.”

“I’m sure Wizzle’s going crazy,” said Mr. Sturgeon, helping himself to a piece of leftover cold chicken. “He spent all day today on the phone raving about toilet paper. And I’ve told you about how he’s taken to running out of his house in his underwear in the middle of the night.”

“You’re exaggerating, William. Mr. Wizzle is really a very nice young man.” She glared. “I wish you wouldn’t lean on the counter and munch like that. You’ll spoil your dinner.”

“My dinner is already spoiled,” replied her husband grimly. “Wizzle is going to be here.”

The doorbell rang. Mr. and Mrs. Sturgeon went together to answer it and found all three guests there. The company settled themselves in the living room and engaged in polite conversation. Mrs. Sturgeon was definitely on her guard, skillfully leading the chitchat away from controversial topics and coaxing her husband into taking part.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, with Mrs. Sturgeon continuing in her role as the perfect hostess, and topics like the weather being discussed at great length. Finally coffee was served.

Mr. Wizzle leaned back in his chair. “So, Miss Peabody, you still haven’t taken me up on my invitation to come over and have a look at my WizzleWare.”

“That’s right,” said Miss Peabody. “I’ve got better things to do than spend my time looking at a bunch of computers.”

Mr. Wizzle chuckled gently. “WizzleWare isn’t computers, Miss Peabody. It’s a way that computers can work. A state-of-the-art software system provides invaluable assistance to a
school and, of course, is a major investment.”

“All right, I’ll rephrase that,” said Miss Peabody. “It’s an
expensive
computer. Anyway, it’s no match for good, solid administration. At our school I’m really starting to see some results in the toughening up of those girls. Here, with that fancy system of yours, you’re breeding a bunch of paunchy flabs just like yourself.”

Mr. Wizzle stiffened. “Are you insinuating that my philosophy of education does not build physical strength and character?”

“I didn’t insinuate anything,” said Miss Peabody. “I said it right out.”

“More coffee, anyone?” asked Mrs. Sturgeon anxiously.

“I’m sure there are wonderful merits to both systems,” put in Miss Scrimmage weakly.

“The girls are up at six-thirty every morning doing calisthenics,” boasted Miss Peabody.

“Even in bad weather,” added Miss Scrimmage woefully.

“Yes, well, I’d like to see the Macdonald Hall boys do that,” said Miss Peabody. “And I’d like to see a software program do a jumping jack!”

“I’ll give the matter serious consideration,” said Mr. Wizzle thoughtfully. “Heavy exercise might channel some of their — uh — mischievous tendencies.”

Miss Peabody grinned. “You’ve got a discipline problem, huh, Wizzle? I’ll bet your biggest problem is the greatest kid in the school.”

Mr. Sturgeon smiled and thought of Bruno Walton.

“At Scrimmage’s we’ve got this girl named Burton. What a girl! What spirit! What character! She spends half her time
running punishment laps, of course, but that just brings out more of the spirit.”

“It also brings out more offensive words,” said Miss Scrimmage primly.

“Wait till the war games,” promised Miss Peabody. “You’ll see what strong stuff Burton is made of.”

Mr. Sturgeon sat bolt upright. “Uh — I beg your pardon, Miss Peabody? You did say war games?”

“Right! Our girls are having war games. The exhilaration and exertion will be good for them. And the strategy planning will sharpen their wits.”

There was dead silence, and then: “Would anyone like a little dessert?”

* * *

Bruno stretched out on his bed. “What a great day! The Committee is working out perfectly! In no time at all Wizzle will be packed and gone.”

Boots looked worried. “I don’t know, Bruno.” He frowned at the twenty-nine boxes of computer paper stacked in the room. “What if something goes wrong?”

Bruno shrugged. “What could possibly go wrong? The Committee is set up tight as a drum.”

There was a tapping at the window. Bruno and Boots raised the blind to reveal Larry Wilson skulking in the bushes.

“Oh, hi, Larry. What’s up?”

“Surprise dorm inspection,” Larry hissed. “You guys better hide that paper!”

Boots went white to the ears. “We can’t hide it! How can we
hide it? There’s no place to hide it! Where can we hide it?”

Bruno closed the window. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully.

“Don’t just stand there!” babbled Boots. “Do something! We’ve got to do something! We’re going to be expelled!”

“This is a job for Committee Security,” said Bruno determinedly. “They’ll be here. We haven’t got a thing to worry about. See? There’s Wilbur now with the signal.”

Boots watched as Wilbur walked to a central point visible to all three dormitories, took out a huge white handkerchief and blew his nose mightily.

In seconds shadowy figures began to appear from all directions as the Security Department’s Emergency Task Force swung into action. After a short briefing they formed a human chain, starting outside the window of room 306. As Bruno and Boots handed out the boxes of printer paper, they were passed down the chain and into a room in Dormitory 2. Just as Boots handed the last box out the window, there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Dormitory inspection!” The pass key was in the lock.

Bruno slammed the window shut. “Coming, Mr. Wizzle, sir.”