The Wizzle War (7 page)

Bruno Walton sat beside Elmer Drimsdale in second period class, geography. Mr. Thomas, the teacher, was lecturing on the earth’s crust formation. Mr. Wizzle sat at the back of the class, making elaborate notes.

“… and that’s all. Are there any questions?”

Bruno elbowed Elmer.

Elmer stood up. “Sir, I would like to make a special presentation to the class.”

Everyone groaned. Elmer’s special presentations were notorious at Macdonald Hall.

“By all means. Go ahead, Drimsdale,” said Mr. Thomas.

Elmer walked to the front of the class and set up several charts and sketches along the blackboard ledge. “My project deals with the Great Lakes–St. Lawrence Lowlands fault line.”

Mr. Thomas frowned. “What fault line?”

“The earthquake fault line, sir,” replied Elmer blandly.

At the back of the room Wizzle’s head snapped up to attention.

“The Great Lakes–St. Lawrence Lowlands fault line is not as well known as the San Andreas fault line in California, but nevertheless it exists, representing a clear and present danger to the area. The fault itself has been dormant since the Lower Cretaceous Period. However, a hairline offshoot of the fault,
which I have named the Elmer Drimsdale fault because I pinpointed it, is quite active. The end of this line actually extends to the Macdonald Hall grounds, passing directly underneath the south lawn.”

Now Elmer had Mr. Wizzle’s full attention. That strange incident last night! An earthquake!

“Seismic activity has been rather light of late,” Elmer went on, “but if you refer to this chart, you can see that a quake of major proportions is overdue.”

“Remarkable,” said Mr. Thomas. “Is Macdonald Hall then in danger?”

“Oh, no,” said Elmer. “You see, activity on my fault line is very local. Even in the event of a major seismic disturbance, the nearby buildings would remain intact.” He paused and beamed. “Naturally, however, there would be complete and utter devastation on the fault line itself. Now this map has all the Macdonald Hall buildings plotted. The red line is the Elmer Drimsdale fault. As you can see, all dormitories and educational buildings are located a safe distance from the fault. The only one that lies on it is — uh — the guest cottage.”

All the boys wheeled to stare at Mr. Wizzle, who pocketed his notebook and left the room, looking quite pale.

“Elmer,” whispered Bruno, “I love you!”

* * *

Mr. Sturgeon leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Wizzle?”

“I’ll come right to the point, Mr. Sturgeon. I’d like to talk to you about the earthquake fault my house is built on.”

Mr. Sturgeon’s eyes opened wide. “Do tell.”

“Yes, well, I just heard that my cottage is located on an earthquake fault and —”

“Excuse me, Wizzle,” said the Headmaster, “but where did you hear this?”

Mr. Wizzle thought of Elmer Drimsdale’s impeccable scholastic reputation. “From a very reliable source.”

“I’ve been Headmaster here for almost twenty years,” said Mr. Sturgeon, “and we have never had an earthquake.”

“Oh, really?” challenged Mr. Wizzle. “Well, I had one last night.”

“Funny. I didn’t notice anything.”

“That’s because your house isn’t on the fault.”

“That’s absurd,” said the Headmaster. “Your house is no more than twenty-five metres from mine.”

“It’s a very local fault,” insisted Mr. Wizzle. “My source even said so.”

“I see. What else did your source say?”

“He said that we were long overdue for a major earthquake. Frankly, I’m wondering if the cottage is safe.”

Mr. Sturgeon raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you’re really that frightened, Wizzle, I’m sure we can arrange other accommodations — perhaps a small spare room in one of the dormitories.”

Mr. Wizzle bristled. “I’m not at all frightened. I simply wanted to give you some input on this matter.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.

The Headmaster reached for the telephone and dialled his home number. “Mildred? … You’ve got to hear what Wizzle’s done this time … No, it’s not mean. It’s funny …”

* * *

Cathy and Diane sat amid Miss Scrimmage’s student body while Miss Peabody addressed the assembly.

“Now remember,” whispered Cathy, “as soon as she says something mean, start crying.”

“She never says anything that
isn’t
mean.”

“I meant something
really
mean. Don’t forget, cry loud. When the girls hear us, they’ll all start, too. I don’t want a dry eye in the place.”

“Now,” Miss Peabody was saying, “there’s been a little improvement since I came, but you are still the most nauseating, miserable bunch of softies —”

“Waaah!” Cathy wailed at top volume.

Diane joined in with a series of sobs like hiccups. And one by one the entire student body burst into uncontrolled tears, until the whole gymnasium echoed with sobbing, wailing, crying, shrieking and howling voices.

Miss Scrimmage leapt up from her chair and began running back and forth in front of the assembly. “Girls! Girls! Please don’t cry! Oh dear! Don’t cry! Miss Peabody didn’t mean it!
Please
don’t cry!”

This encouraged the girls, who cried harder. Miss Peabody stood at the front of the group, arms folded, glancing dispassionately at her wristwatch.

After a full five minutes, the wailing began to diminish. Cathy looked. Miss Peabody was still there, staring at her watch.

“Waaah!”
Cathy howled, and the crying swelled again.

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” agonized Miss Scrimmage. “Miss Peabody, what shall we do?” She looked desperately at the sea of red faces and burst into tears herself.

Miss Peabody remained unmoved. After another five minutes, voices began to grow hoarse and, slowly but surely, the wailing petered out. Cathy kept crying to rally the girls, but finally the last echo of her wailing bounced off the walls and the room fell into total silence.

Miss Peabody stepped forward and fixed them all with a look that would have melted lead. “Are you quite finished with that blubbering?”

The only reply was the sound of Miss Scrimmage blowing her nose.

“I’ll see you all out on the track this afternoon. You wasted ten good minutes! Ten good laps should cover it.

“Now, I want to tell you about our new program. You girls lack spirit, excitement and initiative. That’s why I’m dividing up the whole school into four squadrons by last names. A to G — Blue Squadron; H to L — Red Squadron; M to R — Green Squadron; S to Z — White Squadron. Now, instead of calisthenics in the morning I’ll be teaching you how to march. Then you’re on your own to practise and get ready for Saturday’s parade.”

There was an alarmed murmur.

“Stow it! The squadron that presents the best parade gets an overnight trip somewhere or other with Miss Scrimmage. Okay, that’s all. Dismissed. See you on the track.”

As the girls began to file out of the gym, Cathy leaned over
to Diane. “Did you hear that? A trip with Miss Scrimmage! That means a trip without Peabody!”

“Overnight!” added Diane wistfully.

Cathy’s face took on a look of determination. “We’re going to win that parade! I’d do anything for a twenty-four-hour pass!”

* * *

Mr. Wizzle ushered Wilbur Hackenschleimer briskly into his office. “Well, Hacken, and how are you today?”

Wilbur looked at him. “That’s Hackenschleimer, sir.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Hackenschleimer — that’s fifteen letters. WizzleWare doesn’t like that. Our programs conserve memory for improved processing speed. Twelve letters is the maximum. I’ve decided to shorten your name down to Hacken.”

Wilbur was taken aback. “But, sir, we’ve always been Hackenschleimer!”

“It’s all in the interests of efficiency, Hacken,” said Mr. Wizzle. “Besides, I think it has quite a nice ring to it. Wilbur Hacken. Yes. When you turn eighteen you should seriously consider having it changed permanently. Well, that’s settled then.”

Wilbur’s face was red. “But, sir —”

“No buts, Hacken. That’s all. You can go. Try to cut down on the eating, will you? Good day.”

Big Wilbur Hackenschleimer stormed out of the office. By the time he stepped out of the Faculty Building he was running, and when he reached Dormitory 3 his pounding footsteps were
shaking the ground. He entered the building, stormed down the hall and burst unannounced into room 306. Boots was out. Bruno and Elmer, discussing strategy, looked up questioningly.

“Bruno,” roared Wilbur, “Wizzle’s got to go!”

Bruno smiled. “Sit down. We’re having a committee meeting. Welcome to Operation Quake.”

* * *

Mr. Wizzle went to bed that night in a state of nervous tension. He had placed a crystal glass carefully on the night table beside his bed and stood a spoon up in the glass. If there was another tremor, this would be his early warning.

As he climbed into bed, the spoon rattled sharply in the glass. He looked around nervously, trying to calm the beating of his heart. This would never do. He had to be sensible.

He lay down on his back, closed his eyes and opened them again, noticing that the ceiling light fixture was right over the bed. If it came down, it would kill him. He got up, causing the spoon and glass to rattle again, and pushed the bed all the way up against the far wall, under the window. That was a good idea — an emergency exit. Come on, get a grip on things, he told himself. He climbed back into bed and, after much tossing and turning, finally fell asleep.

Mr. Wizzle awoke early, with a start, the bright sun from the window shining in his eyes. He yawned, stretched and got up. “Wonderful! What a wonderful morning!” he declared aloud, even though his head was pounding from insufficient sleep. Sturgeon had been right. There was no earthquake fault. He’d probably imagined it all. What a relief! He felt so invigorated
that he began to do deep knee-bends. The spoon in the glass vibrated from his movements, and he laughed at his anxiety of the previous night.

He went out to the linen closet, grabbed a towel for his shower and re-entered the bedroom. The spoon was still rattling in the glass. The fixture was swaying from side to side and the floor began to vibrate under his feet. Then came the roar, louder this time, and he could feel a deep churning in his stomach.

“Earthquake!”

* * *

“There,” said Bruno. “Switch it off. I think he’s had enough for this morning.”

Wilbur had a look of wonder on his face. “And that’s honestly making an earthquake in his house?”

Elmer nodded.

Boots stirred in his bed and looked up sleepily. “What’s going on at this hour of the morning? Wilbur? Elmer? Where did you guys come from? Bruno, what’s going on? You never get up before a quarter to nine.”

“I changed my hours,” said Bruno, “when I changed my colleagues.”

Bruno, Elmer and Wilbur sat at a corner table in the dining hall at lunch that day, listening to an earnest Chris Talbot.

“Then he said that he and his software had decided that I was much too artistic ever to become a well-rounded person. So I pointed out that maybe I didn’t want to be a well-rounded person and he gave me five demerits for mouthing off. He confiscated all my art supplies and switched me out of my art
courses into physics, chemistry and algebraic structures. Now my average is going to go down twenty percent, not to mention that I hate that kind of stuff.”

“That’s a real bummer,” said Bruno sympathetically. “What do you think you can do about it?”

“I want to join your committee,” said Chris positively. “You were right all along, Bruno. We’ve got to get rid of Wizzle.”

“We’re well on the way already,” said Bruno cheerfully. “Elmer, tell the man about Operation Quake.”

* * *

Mr. Wizzle leaned back. “Now, Rampulsky, I have something very interesting planned for you.”

Sidney squirmed in his chair, tipping himself over sideways. “Sorry, sir.” He scrambled to his feet and sat down again.

“You’ve illustrated our point exactly,” said Mr. Wizzle. “You’re far too clumsy. You need something that will teach you grace and coordination. By special arrangement with Miss Peabody, you will be joining the beginners’ ballet class at Scrimmage’s.”

Sidney leapt to his feet, banging his knee against the desk. “Ow! But sir —”

“No buts, Rampulsky. With your every motion you more than prove the need for this project. Their course convenes at three o’clock, so you will be dismissed five minutes early from your last class of the afternoon, starting today.”

“But — but sir, you can’t
do
this to me! I’ll be the only guy there and —”

“This is your prescribed course of study, Rampulsky, arrived
at through great effort and expense. Don’t argue with me.”

“But I can’t just go over there and —”

“That will do,” said Mr. Wizzle firmly. “Presuming to argue with me will cost you five demerits.”

“I won’t go!” howled Sidney.

“Ten demerits.”

“I’ll go,” mumbled Sidney.

“Fine,” said Mr. Wizzle. “And I want to see two hundred lines —
I will obey fully all the rules of Macdonald Hall
. You may go. Send Anderson in, will you?”

Sidney left and Pete Anderson entered the office.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Wizzle, sir?” he said meekly.

“Yes, Anderson. Sit down. I’d like to have you write a few more tests.”

Pete turned deathly white. “More tests? Like the real hard one we had to write the first day?”

“They’re not hard, Anderson. They’re opinion tests.”

“Gee,” said Pete, “I must have really flunked that first one!”

“No one fails, Anderson. Your results were just a little puzzling, that’s all. The software needs some more data.”

“Mr. Wizzle, do you think you could give me some books so I can study before I write those tests?”

“There’s nothing to study,” said Mr. Wizzle, a trifle impatiently. “It’s just your own opinions.”

Pete’s brow furrowed. “What if my own opinions are the wrong answers?”

“Anderson, are you being deliberately dense?”

“Sir?”

“Oh, all right. Never mind. Report to me for testing at three o’clock every day this week. Dismissed.”