The Wizzle War (12 page)

“William, who is G. Gavin Gunhold?”

Mr. Sturgeon smiled at his wife. “Oh, you read the paper, did you? I think G. Gavin Gunhold is a joke, Mildred. Wizzle made Anderson editor of the school paper and Anderson doesn’t know what to put in a newspaper, so I suppose a group of the boys got together and thought up G. Gavin Gunhold. It’s quite clever, actually.”

“It isn’t right,” she said primly. “It’s expensive to put out a newspaper, and it shouldn’t be wasted on nonsense.”

“You haven’t seen wasted paper until you’ve seen Wizzle. He had fifty-four cartons of the stuff piled in the office this morning. Anyway, there’s no harm in G. Gavin Gunhold. The boys have to report something.”

She sighed. “In a way it’s a shame it isn’t all true. He certainly sounds like a wonderful boy.”

* * *

Bruno and Boots were walking with Pete Anderson down the hall of the Faculty Building when Mr. Wizzle approached them.

“Ah, Anderson, I’ve been looking all over for you. An excellent job you did on the paper. I especially liked the articles on Gavin Gunhold.”

“Thank you, sir,” stammered Pete.

“By the way, boys, have any of you seen Gunhold today?” Boots and Pete both turned pale.

“Uh — Gavin just walked out of biology class,” supplied Bruno. “He was headed for the English wing, I think.”

“Thanks.” Mr. Wizzle trotted off.

Boots and Pete exhaled simultaneously.

* * *

Mr. Wizzle sat at his desk. How distressing! He had wasted a whole day looking for G. Gavin Gunhold with no success — the boy was nowhere to be found. It seemed that everywhere Mr. Wizzle inquired, he had just missed him by five minutes. He had even checked with Elmer Drimsdale, Gunhold’s roommate, but Drimsdale had said that Gavin was always busy, always on the move. There was something strange about that. From past dormitory inspections Mr. Wizzle could have sworn Drimsdale lived alone. Yet there were two beds, two desks, two dressers and two sets of clothing in the closet. Gunhold lived in 201 all right.

He noticed a letter on the corner of his desk and reached for it. The letterhead (printed not an hour earlier in the Macdonald Hall print shop) read:

Mr. Wizzle stared at the date. Heavens! It was on Saturday! If he didn’t find Gunhold immediately, the boy might miss being present to accept his award!

Quickly he dashed off a note and called for the messenger.

“Yes, sir?” said Larry Wilson.

“Take this over to room 201 and see that Gavin Gunhold gets it. It’s of the utmost importance.” Larry ran down the hall and out the door of the Faculty Building only to collapse in fits of helpless laughter on the front lawn.

* * *

By Thursday night Mr. Wizzle was no less than frantic. He had been checking around all day and Gunhold was nowhere to be found. All the boys he’d asked claimed that Gunhold was on a special field trip but would be home for dinner. Wizzle had gone to the dining hall at six o’clock only to be told that Gunhold was working in the chemistry lab, which was closed. Finally one boy had mentioned that Gunhold had organized a small group of boys who had been given special permission to go off-campus to one of the local farms to help out an ailing farmer. They would be back by lights-out. Wizzle had left a strict message with Drimsdale that Gunhold was to call him immediately at home.

At two minutes to ten the telephone rang in Mr. Wizzle’s cottage. He ran for the phone, but as he took his first step a strong earth tremor hit the house. He stopped indecisively, torn
between his duty to a student and his own personal safety. The phone rang again and he took a step toward it. Suddenly the tremor became stronger and he thought he saw a new crack appearing in the plaster. His mind made up, Mr. Wizzle sprinted to the door and rushed outside. He paused to catch his breath. Inside, the ringing stopped.

He rushed across the campus toward Dormitory 2, wondering idly why Wilbur Hacken was always standing out in the open blowing his nose. He rushed inside and began pounding on the door of room 201.

Elmer answered the door. “Oh, Mr. Wizzle. Did Gavin get in touch with you?”

“No, he didn’t! Where is he?”

“The boys he was with came back,” explained Elmer, “but Gavin is going to stay the night. He’s got special permission to miss his morning classes tomorrow.” He frowned. “He said he was going to call you. I guess you must have been out.”

“Uh — yes. Yes, I was out. Well, go to bed, Drimsdale. I’ll catch Gunhold later.”

Mr. Wizzle ran out of the dormitory and back across the lawn. This whole G. Gavin Gunhold thing was beginning to get to him. Why, if he hadn’t seen the complete records on the boy, he’d swear that Gunhold didn’t even exist! Coming on top of those earthquakes, that miserable foul-up with the printer paper, his horrible accident at Scrimmage’s and those terrible calisthenics, this was just too much.

He ran up to Mr. Sturgeon’s front porch and rang the bell insistently.

The Headmaster opened the door. “Hello, Wizzle. Come in.
What can I do for you?”

Mr. Wizzle walked in, his face wild. “Mr. Sturgeon, I’ve spent all week looking for G. Gavin Gunhold and I can’t find him anywhere!”

“Well, that’s understandable,” said Mr. Sturgeon.

Mr. Wizzle looked at him. “Yes — uh — every time I look for him he’s either just left or is off-campus by special permission! He’s never at class, although his record says he’s a straight-A student! And now he’s won the Caldwell Foundation Medal for his paper on patriotism, and his plane for Edmonton is leaving tomorrow afternoon, but he doesn’t know about it because he’s at some farmer’s house helping out! Mr. Sturgeon, what am I going to do?”

Mr. Sturgeon led him into the neat kitchen. “Sit down, Wizzle,” he said kindly.

The two men sat down at the table.

“Wizzle, there is no such person as G. Gavin Gunhold.”

Mr. Wizzle went white. “But — but there has to be! The computer has a file on him!”

“Then someone else fed it in. I can assure you there is no G. Gavin Gunhold. He has no academic record; he didn’t win a track meet, a chess tournament or a foundation medal; he doesn’t play the oboe and he isn’t out assisting farmers. He just
isn’t
, Wizzle. It’s as simple as that.”

Mr. Wizzle looked sick. All he could manage to say was, “I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid the entire thing is a hoax,” explained Mr. Sturgeon.

Mr. Wizzle leapt to his feet, his face flaming. “The nerve!
Just wait till I get my hands on the boys responsible! Drimsdale! I’ll expel Drimsdale! And Anderson! And Walton! I told you about Walton! He said Gunhold was a close friend of his! Yes, and Wilson —!”

“Calm down for a moment, Wizzle,” said the Headmaster, “and answer a question for me, please. In all your inquiries, did even one boy deny knowing Gunhold?”

“Well — uh — no.”

“Then obviously all the boys were in on the joke. And you cannot expel everyone or hand out thousands of demerits. Wizzle, the two of us might not agree on some matters of education, but there is one thing of which I can assure you after years of experience as an educator: No matter how strictly or how well you enforce discipline, there are always going to be practical jokes. And this one, if you will forgive my saying so, has been rather magnificent.”

“You’re on their side!” stormed Mr. Wizzle.

“Most assuredly I am. They’re my boys. A word of advice: If you rant and rave and make a big fuss about this it will all be part of the joke and they’ll laugh even harder. But if you take it like a man and come up smiling, they’ll respect you for it. Let me handle this.”

Mr. Wizzle inhaled deeply. “I suppose you might have a point there.” His voice rose again. “But I really don’t think I have to tolerate —”

“Wizzle,” said the Headmaster patiently.

“Well, how about —”

“No.”

“Oh, all right!”

Mrs. Sturgeon appeared in the doorway. “William, what’s — Oh, hello, Mr. Wizzle. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please,” he answered faintly.

Mr. Sturgeon was disposed to be kind. “Don’t take it so hard, Wizzle. They once switched my tuxedo for a judo suit on Founders’ Day.”

* * *

Bruno had gone to sleep laughing and he woke up laughing.

“I just can’t wait to see what G. Gavin Gunhold is going to do next,” he chuckled to Boots. “You know, when he gets back from helping the farmer.”

Boots began to dress. “Maybe we should downplay G. Gavin Gunhold a little. We’re in for a lot of trouble if we get caught.”

“Are you nuts? It’s going perfectly. Will he make it to Edmonton in time to receive his award? Maybe we should send him to Europe or something, or to New York to mediate in United Nations debates. How about we make him special emissary to the Vatican?”

“Calm down, Bruno,” grinned Boots.

“It almost makes me sad that Wizzle will have to leave,” said Bruno. “I’ve never had so much fun in my life. It reminds me of the good old days.”

There was a knock on the door. Boots opened it to admit Larry Wilson. Larry looked worried.

“Hey, you guys, The Fish wants to see both of you right away.”

“Oh, no!” gasped Boots.

“We’re on our way,” said Bruno. “I wonder what he wants? What have we done lately?”

“What
haven’t
we done lately?” snapped Boots. “Do you think he’s found out about The Committee?”

“No. How could he? The Security Department would never allow that. Anyway, don’t worry. Whatever it is, we’ll bluff our way through it.”

Boots shook his head. “This isn’t Wizzle, Bruno! It’s The Fish! He’s going to kill us if he’s found out about The Committee!”

“Come on,” said Bruno stepping into his shoes.

“Let’s find out what this is all about.”

Boots just moaned.

The two boys ran across the campus to the Faculty Building, rushed inside and tapped on Mr. Sturgeon’s door.

“Have a seat.” Mr. Sturgeon motioned toward the decidedly uncomfortable wooden bench reserved for students called on the carpet.

“Walton, O’Neal,” he began grimly, “I have some distressing news for you. G. Gavin Gunhold is dead.” He paused for effect, noting with satisfaction their stricken expressions.

Bruno studied the carpet, then looked up. “Uh — how did you know it was us, sir?”

“When has it ever been anyone else?” retorted Mr. Sturgeon. “Although this time I must admit that you have dragged an inordinate number of people into your unworthy scheming. Do you realize that Drimsdale and Anderson could be in serious trouble because of this?”

Both boys gazed at the floor.

“This hoax is responsible for wasting” — he paused to choose his words carefully — “a good deal of staff time. It may
seem like a great joke to you. There are some of us, however, who are not amused.”

He began pacing up and down in front of them. “In addition, I am certain that, were I to investigate Mr. Wizzle’s recent problem with paper delivery, I would find you at the bottom of it. You can thank your lucky stars that I have no proof of this.” He fell silent, debating whether or not to mention Mr. Wizzle’s earthquake problem. He decided against it. After all, it was obviously impossible for schoolboys — even seven hundred of them — to create earthquakes. Besides, how could Wizzle be having earthquakes which were not affecting the whole area? Better not to mention the earthquakes.

“Are you going to give us demerits, sir?” asked Bruno, thinking securely of the Lines Department.

“No,” said the Headmaster shortly. “You will each deliver to me in one week’s time a one-thousand-word essay on the morality of practical jokes. I am assigning Drimsdale and Anderson the same.”

Bruno’s mind raced. Could The Committee set up an Essay Department?

“You are dismissed,” said Mr. Sturgeon. “Please bear in mind that if you are called into my office on this subject again, things will go very hard with you. Good day.”

Bruno and Boots fled.

“Just like the good old days!” mimicked Boots savagely. “Just like the
bad
good old days!”

* * *

Cathy Burton lay on her bed feeling as stiff as a board. As soon
as she had recovered from her post-war-games cold, Miss Peabody had pounced on her to do the ten punishment laps.

“The march starts at seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” Diane was saying, “and she says it’s going to be around forty kilometres.”

Cathy sat up with an audible creak. “Forty kilometres? Is she nuts?”

“Forty kilometres. That’s what Peabody said,” confirmed Diane. “Over rough terrain. She said we’d get back sometime in the early evening.”

“Well, I don’t care what Peabody said,” announced Cathy. “There is no power in the universe that can make me go on a forced march!”

* * *

“Okay, fall in for the march!” bellowed Miss Peabody.

The scorching sun of Indian summer beat heavily down on the girls of Miss Scrimmage’s. It was the hottest day of the fall.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” commented Diane as Cathy hefted her backpack.

“Leave me alone,” growled Cathy. “I’m dying.”

“All right — forward,
march
! Hut, two, three, four! Hut, two, three, four! Come on, look alive, Burton!”

“If I survive this,” muttered Cathy darkly, “which I doubt, Peabody will rue this march. Maybe a nice long walk will give me a chance to plan some strategy.”

“The last time you planned strategy,” said Diane, we all ran a lot of laps.”

“Shhh,” said Cathy. “I’m detaching my mind from my body.”

* * *

A practical joke is funny, but sometimes it’s not so funny
, wrote Pete Anderson. “Hmmm. Eleven words.”

Pete, Elmer, Bruno and Boots were sprawled in various poses around room 306 writing their punishment essays.