This Can't Be Happening at Macdonald Hall (3 page)

“Well,” Bruno shrugged, “I thought we might be a bit hungry, so I stopped off at the kitchen and got us a little snack.” He held out a huge brown bag. “Care for a sandwich?”

He spread the contents of the bag between them. There was a loaf of bread, an entire delicatessen of cold meats, a package of sliced cheese, four apples, six oranges and two half-pint containers of chocolate milk.

Boots whistled admiringly. “Boy, with all this we could run away from school.” Then he added wistfully, “And that's just what I feel like doing.”

“That bad?” asked Bruno, slapping meat and cheese between two slices of bread.

“Worse!” exclaimed Boots. “You wouldn't believe it.” He bit sadly into an apple. “George Wexford-Smyth III is a crackpot! The room is full of medicines and stock exchange charts. I can't keep my stuff in the bathroom because of all his pills and ointments, and I can't hang my posters on the wall because the stock charts take up too much room.”

“At least he isn't an ichthyologist whose world is the undersea world,” Bruno countered. “Our bathtub is full of caviar. The ichthyologist is studying the crossbreeding of goldfish, and I am doomed never to have a bath again as long as I live with Elmer Drimsdale — and that won't be too long if I have anything to say about it.”

Boots sighed. “That's just it. Unfortunately we have
nothing
to say about it.”

“Well, we'll just have to
do
something, then,” decided Bruno. “Are you kidding about the stock charts?”

“Scouts' honour,” said Boots, saluting. “I was just dropping off to sleep tonight when the big financier got a message from his broker. Magneco went down another two points. George is wiped out.”

“Oh, that's nothing,” Bruno replied bitterly. “At least you've got just one roommate to put up with. I have about a thousand and I've already killed one — too bad it wasn't Elmer.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Boots asked.

“Ants,” said Bruno. “A metropolis of ants. Elmer is an entomologist. His world is the insect world.”

“He keeps
ants
?” Boots asked in disbelief.

Bruno nodded. “He not only keeps them; he exercises them. His queen was out for a stroll when I scrunched her.”

“What are we going to do?” Boots wailed. “I don't think I can put up with another minute of George swallowing pills, gargling and spraying his nose. He won't let me open a window because of his sinuses and he wants to call me Melvin because nicknames are so vulgar! As for those charts …” He gestured despairingly with both hands, then reached for a slice of bread.

“Elmer's not really such a bad guy,” mumbled Bruno with his mouth full, “but he sure isn't for me. Come to think of it, he isn't really for anybody — except maybe his ants and his goldfish. By the way, did I mention the fish tank? It bubbles day and night.” He yawned. “Listen, Boots, it's getting late. Between the two of us we should be able to figure some way out of this mess. Meet me here the same time tomorrow night.”

“Right,” answered Boots. “Hey, what'll we do with the rest of this food?”

Bruno stuffed the leftovers into the bag. “I'll shove it in the cannon,” he decided. “Then we'll have an emergency supply.”

“Just remember,” Boots prodded, “you're always bragging that you have an answer for everything. This time you've got to deliver! We've
got
to find a way to ditch these guys and get back together again!”

“Don't worry,” Bruno promised. “I'll think of something — Melvin.”

“Very funny,” Boots growled. “Goodnight.”

“'Night.”

A corner of the lunch bag, sticking out of the cannon's mouth, flapped silently in the darkness.

By the time Boots awoke the next morning George had already returned from breakfast. He was examining the morning paper and checking his charts, making adjustments with a red pen.

“Morning,” Boots murmured. “How's Magneco?”

“Recovering, recovering,” George said briskly, as though he had no time for small talk.

Boots, a notorious morning sneezer, rattled off four violent
achoos!
in a row. Immediately George whipped out a disinfectant and began to spray the entire room, giving special attention to Boots's bed. “Germs!” he cried in a panic. “You didn't tell me you had a cold! I would have put up my screen!”

Boots stared, first amused and then disgusted, as George wheeled out a large screen and placed it between the two beds. On Boots's side was a sign that said
QUARANTINE
.

“Cut it out,” Boots protested. “I haven't got a cold. I always sneeze in the morning when I wake up.”

Reluctantly George put away the screen. “I'll take your word for it,” he said. “But sneezing
does
spread germs, you know. You ought to keep a paper bag beside your bed and every morning you can sneeze into it and put it out with the trash to be burned.”

Boots started to insist on his right to sneeze anywhere he wanted, but then gave up and began to get dressed. Before he was finished George had turned from his charts, picked up an armload of books and headed for his first class of the day, advanced economics. A few minutes later Boots set out for his math class, but not before making a point of coughing on George's pillow.

Boots was in a foul mood. He knew that Bruno was going to be in that class too, and that they would not even be allowed to say hello to one another. His world had become a very uncomfortable place.

* * *

Elmer's alarm shrilled at the usual 6 A.M. Bruno managed to open one eye and was vaguely aware of a headache. “What time is it?” he mumbled.

“It is exactly six o'clock,” Elmer said.

“A.M.?” Bruno cried in dismay.

“You bet,” Elmer said brightly. “There's lots of work to be done before breakfast.”

“Like what?” Bruno snarled. It was his habit to miss breakfast, sleep until quarter to nine, then make a frantic effort to get washed and dressed and to his first class on time.

“I have to check on my goldfish experiment,” Elmer explained, “and make some notes. Then I have several other experiments to tend to, and my ants to take care of.”

Bruno sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, then paused. “Is it safe to stand on the floor?” he asked. “I wouldn't want to step on anybody important.”

“Oh, perfectly safe,” said Elmer. “They're still sleeping.”

“That proves they've got more brains than we have, Elmer, but since I'm awake I may as well unpack.” Bruno heaved his suitcase onto the bed and threw it open. He went over to the large dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer. “This one mine?”

“No-o-o!”

Bruno was frozen by Elmer's anguished scream. He stared down into the drawer. Lining the bottom were dozens of tiny pots of earth with little plants sprouting in them.

“You've ruined my experiment!” Elmer wailed. “Those plants were supposed to be in total darkness for a hundred and forty-four hours. Now have to start all over!”

“What do you have plants in a drawer for?” Bruno asked.

“I am a botanist,” Elmer explained. “My world is the world of plants.”

“I always thought you were a bit earthy, Elmer,” Bruno grunted, “but this is too much. Just where do I get to keep my underwear?”

“Couldn't you keep it in your suitcase for the next six days?” Elmer pleaded.

“Oh, all right,” Bruno agreed. “Anything for you, Elmer.”

Washed, dressed and at least half awake, Bruno arrived at the dining room for his first breakfast ever at Macdonald Hall. Wearily he picked up a tray and walked over to where two elderly women in white uniforms were dishing out breakfast.

“Look, Martha,” one said, “a new boy.” She turned to Bruno. “Welcome to Macdonald Hall, dear. When did you arrive?”

The other boys being served hooted loudly.

“This is my second year,” Bruno grinned sheepishly. “I guess I'm just not much for breakfast.”

But unaccustomed as he was to eating early, he quickly managed to put away three scrambled eggs, six strips of bacon, four large pancakes with maple syrup, two pieces of toast and three glasses of milk. “It's a good thing you don't come to breakfast too often,” one student observed as Bruno was downing the last of his milk. “They'd have to raise the fees just to feed you.”

Bruno patted his stomach. “That was delicious. You know, I may even come again sometime.”

As he entered math class, he noted that Boots was already there, sitting as far away from his usual place as possible without actually being outside the room. He also found that he was incapable of giving his friend the usual smile of greeting, forbidden or not. Breakfast was sitting very heavily on his stomach; he felt sick.

The geometry class was a horrendous experience for both of them. Bruno was trying to keep his spirits up and his breakfast down, and Boots was yawning hugely. So the teacher was confronted on one side with Bruno's green face, and on the other with Boots's gaping mouth.

“Are we keeping you up, O'Neal?” he finally demanded.

“Sorry, sir,” said Boots. “I was up late last night. I guess I'm pretty tired.”

The teacher turned to Bruno. “I think you should have stayed in bed this morning, Walton. You don't look at all well.”

“Oh, it's nothing, sir,” replied Bruno. “I just ate too much breakfast.”

A boy in the front row turned around. “Breakfast?
You?
”

“That will do,” said the teacher. “Walton, I'm sending you back to bed. Here is your authorization.” He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and handed it over. Bruno was more than happy to obey.

* * *

Boots sat in a corner of the dining room munching on a sandwich. News of Mr. Sturgeon's order had spread. Boots's friends, sensing that he was in a grim mood, left him alone, although five of them sat conspicuously at a table for six with one chair pulled out invitingly in case he chose to join them. He didn't.

He was very much aware that Bruno had not come to lunch. He must be sick, really sick, Boots thought. And a lot Elmer Drimsdale was going to care!

* * *

Bruno spent most of the day in bed, although as soon as his mammoth breakfast had settled he felt considerably better. He lay there thinking. Elmer hates me, he mused cheerfully. I'd like to booby-trap one of his experiments, but that would just make him mad. He'd probably complain to The Fish …

Instantly an amazing plan sprouted in Bruno's fertile mind, one he was later to call his “glorious idea.”

He was still in bed when Elmer came in at four o'clock. “Are you still sick?” his roommate asked solicitously.

“Sort of,” Bruno answered, touched by Elmer's concern and a little ashamed of his earlier thoughts and plans.

“Gee, that's swell!” Elmer rummaged through a large crate which stood beside his desk and produced a high-magnification microscope and a box of glass slides. “I'd like to study your germs,” he explained. “Would you mind coughing on this slide?”

“Yes, I would mind very much,” Bruno growled. “Why?”

“I'm a microbiologist,” Elmer answered. “My world is the microbe world.”

“I always thought you were very small, Elmer,” said Bruno wearily. “Go away.”

Elmer mumbled something about lack of cooperation and reluctantly put away his equipment.

“Oh, don't take it so hard, Elmer,” Bruno reassured him. “Maybe some day I'll catch something really good and then I'll let you culture it.”

“Really and truly?” Elmer asked hopefully.

“Really and truly,” replied Bruno, “I promise to do my very best to get some terrible disease.”

He watched as his roommate made the rounds of his experiments. Carefully and lovingly Elmer restarted the plant experiment and shut the bottom drawer of the dresser, reminding Bruno that he had only a hundred and forty-four more hours to live out of his suitcase. The ants had completed an entire new tunnel, and he rewarded them with a spoonful of sugar. Everything was going along swimmingly in the bathtub, although no fry had hatched yet; but the fish tank was not quite so serene.

“My algae eater!” Elmer exclaimed. “He's dead!”

“Maybe it was something he ate,” Bruno suggested. “Look how sick I got from having breakfast.”

“Have you been near this tank?” Elmer asked suspiciously.

“I haven't even
looked
in its direction,” Bruno defended himself. “Fish are not my idea of a good time — unless they're dipped in batter and served with french fries.”

“I guess I cleaned the tank too thoroughly,” Elmer decided, “and didn't leave him enough food. Poor devil,”

Bruno rolled over, turned his face to the wall and switched on his portable radio. “No, no!” Elmer cried.

“What
now
?”

“Turn that off this instant! The noise is bad for my plants!”

“Your plants are closed up in the drawer!” Bruno yelled. “They can't even hear it!”

“Not
those
plants —
these
plants.” Elmer swept open the curtains to reveal a triple row of pots on the window sill.

“I see,” sighed Bruno, and switched off his radio — more determined than ever that Elmer had to go.

* * *

When Boots returned from classes he found George on his hands and knees washing the room with alcohol.

“Good, you're back,” said George. “Watch carefully, please. Next week it will be your turn for sterilizing duty. It has to be done every second day.”

“What do you wash?” Boots asked in amazement, wrinkling his nose from the strong odour.

“Everything,” George replied.