“Well, how else are we going to get to the bank?” asked Bruno. “We can’t very well ask The Fish to give us a lift. He revoked our punishment, but he sure didn’t say anything about fund-raising. Why don’t you look out the window and see where we are?”
“Not me,” said Boots fervently. “If I look out that window, I’ll see The Fish looking back in at me.”
“All right, I’ll look.” Bruno scrambled out from under the sheets and crept on all fours to the window in the back door of the panel truck. “Oh no!” he groaned. “We never left the Hall. The truck must have broken down or something. We’re sitting at the end of the driveway.”
“That means we’re in full view of the whole campus!” Boots wailed. “We can’t get out! Someone’s bound to see us!”
“Shhh! They don’t know we’re in here yet,” warned Bruno. “Stop yelling.”
“What are we going to do?” Boots insisted.
“We’ll have to wait it out,” decided Bruno. “Maybe they’ll fix the truck and we can still get to the bank.”
Forty-five long minutes passed. The two boys sat in miserable silence, listening to shouts from the nearby soccer field and far-off screams from the field-hockey team at Miss Scrimmage’s.
“‘Maybe they’ll fix the truck,’” Boots mimicked finally. “And maybe they won’t! How are we going to get out of here?”
“Shhh! Someone’s coming!” whispered Bruno sharply. “Get down!”
The back door opened and a huge laundry bag was tossed inside. It landed on top of Boots.
“Oof!”
“Ralph?” queried the voice of Wilbur Hackenschleimer. “Is that you, Ralph?”
“No,” said Boots. “There’s nobody here but us laundry.”
“Wilbur!” exclaimed Bruno, poking his head out from under the pile. “We’re saved!”
A few minutes later, carrying two large laundry bags, one under each arm, Wilbur Hackenschleimer walked away from the laundry truck in the direction of Dormitory 3.
* * *
“This sure was a great idea of Cathy’s,” said Bruno with enthusiasm. He and Boots were lying flat on the floor in the back of Miss Scrimmage’s black pick-up truck.
“I thought we’d had enough excitement for one day,” said Boots nervously. “I hope no one saw us sneak over here.”
“They were all at lunch,” said Bruno. “No one was around to see us.”
“I wish I was at lunch right now,” said Boots. “I’m starving. We spent breakfast in a laundry truck and now lunch in a pick-up. We’ll probably spend dinner in jail.”
“Why do you have to be such a pessimist?” asked Bruno. “What can go wrong? Cathy said Miss Scrimmage has to go to the drugstore. The drugstore is right next door to the bank. It’s all very simple.”
Boots just shook his head.
Cathy and Diane stood on the front steps of the residence and watched Miss Scrimmage’s truck pull out onto the highway.
“Hey!” said Diane. “She’s going the wrong way!”
Cathy looked surprised. “Maybe she isn’t going to the drugstore.”
“But you told Bruno …”
“Oh well,” Cathy laughed, “so they’ll have a nice ride.” In the distance, thunder rumbled. “Then again, maybe not.”
* * *
At six o’clock the rain was still pouring down. Bruno and Boots, soaked to the skin and weak with hunger, dragged themselves into the dining hall.
Bruno was livid. “I’ll get Cathy Burton for this,” he said under his breath, “if it takes me two hundred years!”
“‘What can go wrong?’” Boots mimicked savagely. “Nothing much! Miss Scrimmage can go to the hairdresser, buy a darling new dress, stock up on shotgun shells, lose her purse and spend two hours looking for it — everything except go to the drugstore.”
Both boys picked up trays and got into the cafeteria line, eyeing the food ravenously. Boots sneezed. Bruno coughed and wheezed.
“My goodness, how did you get so wet?” said the elderly lady who was serving dinner.
“It’s a long story, Ma’am,” said Bruno. “May I please have lots of everything?”
Boots sneezed again. Both boys were shaking with chills.
“You’re both sick! Go to the infirmary at once!”
“The infirmary?” asked Boots meekly. “No food?”
“You’ll have something there,” insisted the lady. “Straight to the infirmary, now. Hurry, before you get worse!”
Bruno and Boots moaned in harmony and obeyed. It was not long before they were propped up in adjacent beds in the infirmary, downing steaming bowls of cream of wheat with great relish.
“You know,” said Bruno between enthusiastic slurps, “this may have been a blessing in disguise.”
Boots gagged. “Double pneumonia and a bowl of mush! Some blessing! What are you talking about?”
“Well, look at it this way,” explained Bruno. “We’re not really sick, and tomorrow morning they’ll release us. They’ll think we’re in class, and our teachers will think we’re in the infirmary. That’ll leave us free to —”
“Go to the bank,” finished Boots without much spirit.
* * *
Early the next morning Bruno and Boots stepped outside the infirmary building, took a quick look around and sprinted for the wooded area that lined the eastern perimeter of the campus. When they reached the cover of the trees, they slowed to a walk.
“What time is it?” asked Bruno.
Boots consulted his watch. “Quarter after seven,” he replied. “When does that school bus come by?”
“In about twenty minutes,” said Bruno. “We’d better hurry.”
“Bruno, it’s a little kids’ school bus. How are we going to pass for little kids? The driver will kick us off.”
“No, he won’t,” said Bruno. “Just leave everything to me.”
“I left everything to you yesterday,” moaned Boots, “and I had a wonderful day!”
In ten minutes they arrived at the bus stop and slipped into line with a crowd of young children. As they filed onto the bus, the driver stared and then burst out laughing.
“Big for your age, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I failed grade three six times,” Bruno grinned back hopefully.
“You guys from Macdonald Hall use this like your own private bus,” said the driver. “All right. Take a seat.”
Bruno glanced triumphantly at Boots. They were on their way.
When the bank manager arrived to open his bank on the stroke of ten that morning, he found Bruno and Boots asleep on the front step. They had been there since eight o’clock.
Bruno deposited Cathy’s cheque to the Macdonald Hall account, then began to fill out a withdrawal slip.
“You know,” he said, “Five hundred isn’t very much. Why don’t we make it a thousand?”
“No chance!” said Boots firmly.
“Seven-fifty then?”
“Bruno, we’ve been through this before! Five hundred or nothing!”
“Seven hundred? That’s a nice round figure.”
“All right!” cried Boots in despair. “Six hundred! It’s a round figure too, and there’s a hundred dollars less of our necks on the line!”
Both signed the withdrawal slip. Boots’s hand was shaking. Bruno pocketed six crisp hundred-dollar bills and turned to Boots.
“Now we go home.”
“How do we get there?” asked Boots.
Bruno’s jaw dropped. “Hmmm. Good question. I guess we walk.”
“Walk!” exclaimed Boots. “It’s ten kilometres back to the Hall!”
“Then we’d better get started,” said Bruno. “I want to get this money to George.”
* * *
“Six hundred dollars?” exclaimed George Wexford-Smyth III in disbelief. “Surely you jest! You told me you had fifteen thousand.”
“My business partner is very cautious,” said Bruno. “This will have to do for a start.”
“My dear B
runo,” said George patiently. “The first rule of high finance is that it takes money to make money.”
“First let’s see how the investment goes,” said Bruno. “There’s plenty more where this came from.”
Boots looked sick. “You take care of that, George! Don’t lose it!”
“I have no intention of losing it,” George smiled. “I shall invest it wisely.” He turned to walk away.
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Bruno. “What’s the name of our stock?”
“Lorelei Mining,” replied George.
* * *
Three days after the investment had been made, Bruno Walton’s head was buried deep in the financial section of the morning paper. Elmer Drimsdale and Boots O’Neal hung over his shoulder, anxious for news.
“Here it is,” said Bruno. “And look! It’s gone up two cents!”
“We are twenty dollars richer,” said Elmer.
“But we could have made a fortune if we’d invested the whole thing!” Bruno exclaimed.
“Five hundred and three dollars and thirty-six cents precisely,” said Elmer.
“See?” said Bruno to Boots. “You’re holding us back!”
“I’m not holding you back,” replied Boots. “I’m keeping you sane. It could just as easily have gone down two cents. Or more.”
“But it didn’t,” said Bruno. “And it won’t. George knows what he’s doing. His father made millions this way. That’s why we’re going to the bank to get the rest of the money.”
“No way!” exclaimed Boots. “It’s too big a risk!”
“If the rest of the guys knew you cost them $480, they’d wring your neck,” insisted Bruno. “We can’t afford not to invest now. Isn’t that right, Elmer?”
“From a purely mathematical viewpoint,” said Elmer, “it would appear that you should invest further. However, I have not gone into the probabilities of the situation —”
“You see?” interrupted Bruno triumphantly. “We’ve got to invest the rest of that money!”
“Not all of it,” said Boots anxiously. “Maybe another six hundred.”
“Twice small potatoes is still small potatoes,” said Bruno. “And the shares are going to cost us two cents more now.”
“Well, maybe eight hundred then,” agreed Boots.
“Ten thousand,” said Bruno evenly.
“Come on, Bruno, be reasonable!” Boots wailed. “Don’t you understand what’s at stake here?”
“I sure do,” said Bruno. “You’re at stake here — and Pete Anderson — and the honour of Macdonald Hall. There’s to be no more fooling around with pennies. You of all people should be willing to take a chance, since one is all you have.”
Boots swallowed hard. “Two thousand dollars,” he gasped.
“Done,” said Bruno, rather pleased with himself. “If we hurry, we can go out with Ralph.”
“Ralph? But Bruno —”
“Don’t worry,” said Bruno, “lightning seldom strikes twice in the same laundry truck.”
“Actually,” said Elmer, “the odds are —”
“Some other time,” said Bruno. “We’re in a hurry.”
* * *
“Your decision to invest further was a wise one,” said George over dinner that day. “Naturally, it would have been better to have invested the whole amount at sixty cents as I did with the first six hundred. You now own 2,112 shares of Lorelei Mining, presently worth roughly two thousand, six hundred dollars. Please invest the rest shortly. The secret of making money in the stock market is to buy low and sell high.”
“Yeah, well let’s see how this does before we put in any more,” said Bruno. “Besides, I have to fight with my partner here over every cent of it.”
George nodded sympathetically. “Haggling is so vulgar,” he agreed.
* * *
As word of the investment got around among the students, a new kind of insanity broke out at Macdonald Hall — love of learning. Specifically, of mathematics. Mr. Stratton, head of the Math Department, could scarcely believe his good fortune when a delegation of boys, headed by Bruno and Boots, appeared in his office to request that all math courses include an immediate in-depth study of the stock exchange.
Comic magazines disappeared and were replaced by copies of The Financial Post. The few boys who subscribed to Toronto newspapers were literally mobbed each day when the papers arrived, by boys anxious for a glance at the financial pages. Boys who had trouble with their times tables now spoke with ease of “blue chips,” “mergers,” “speculation” and “buying on margin.” The name Lorelei Mining was on everybody’s lips.
Strangest of all, George Wexford-Smyth III, ignored, ridiculed and friendless, had become the most popular boy on campus. He was never seen without an admiring crowd, and there was a waiting list of boys who wanted to see him for financial consultation.
Five days after the second investment had been made, Bruno and Boots arrived at George’s room in a high state of excitement. George let them in.
“How’s it going?” asked Boots anxiously.
“Quite an impressive gain,” said George. “Last night Lorelei closed at sixty-nine cents. You’ve made about three hundred dollars.”
“Is that all?” said Boots. It seemed to him that they were taking a very big risk for a very small return.
“Had you invested the whole amount,” replied George reproachfully, “you would have made over two thousand.”
Bruno grabbed Boots by the arm. “Come on! We’ve got to go to the bank and get the rest of the money!”
“Only another two thousand!” begged Boots pathetically.
“Whatever,” said Bruno.
* * *
With yet another two thousand dollars invested, the stock market fever at Macdonald Hall was becoming even more intense. Lorelei Mining became the only topic of conversation.
It had become George’s custom over the days to consult his stockbroker before coming to the dining room for lunch. On this particular day, some ten days after the third investment, he entered the room, stood in the doorway and cleared his throat softly. All eyes turned to him and silence fell. Mr. Sturgeon himself could not have commanded order so quickly.
“Lorelei presently stands at eighty-one cents a share,” he announced briskly. “Macdonald Hall holdings now total $5,768.82.”
There was applause from everyone except Boots. His eyes were strangely haunted.
It was two o’clock in the morning when Bruno was suddenly hauled out of bed by his frantic roommate. “Bruno, wake up! Wake up!”
Bruno was in a daze. “What? What? What?”
Boots’s anxious white face hovered over him. “We have to buy that stock, Bruno! Today!”
“Today hasn’t started yet,” mumbled Bruno. “Wake me up when it does.”
“Bruno, the stock!” Boots repeated. “We’ve got to get the rest of the money and invest it right away!”
Bruno woke up instantly. “Now you’re talking!” he said with a grin.
* * *
Ralph Colacci pulled his laundry truck into the small shopping centre parking lot, got out and headed for the diner for a cup of coffee. In the back of his truck, a sheet moved.
“We’re here,” it said.
Boots O’Neal appeared from under a mountain of towels. “Let’s go,” he said.
Bruno and Boots scrambled stealthily out of the truck, whipped past the diner, past the drugstore and into the bank.
“This time all of it,” said Bruno as he began filling out a withdrawal slip. “$10,501.58.”
“Let’s leave the fifty-eight cents,” suggested Boots nervously.
“Good idea,” said Bruno. “Then we’ll still have the account here, all ready for when we bring in the big boodle.”
They presented the slip to the teller who prepared a bank draft for the money. Bruno pocketed the precious piece of paper and they began the long walk back to Macdonald Hall. Both boys were very quiet as they trudged along the soft shoulder of the
highway.
Chapter 14
To Sell or Not to Sell
Bruno kicked the door of room 109 with great determination.
“George!” he shouted. “George, open up and let me in so I can kill you!”
It was a week after the entire Macdonald Hall pool fund had been invested, and Lorelei Mining had taken a sudden alarming dip.
George, impeccably dressed in suede and cashmere, opened the door. “Yes? Bruno — Melvin — you require something of me?”
“The whole campus requires something of you!” exclaimed Bruno. “Your head! Lorelei’s dropped down to sixty-five cents! We’re losing money!”
“Simply a minor setback,” said George calmly.
“Your minor setback has cost us three thousand dollars!” cried Boots in agony. “We’re going to lose! We’re going to lose it all! And then what will we tell The Fish?”
“There is silver in that mine,” George assured them. “I have it from the most reputable firm of geologists in Canada. It is simply a matter of time.”
“You mean it’s going to start going up soon?” demanded Bruno hopefully.
George smiled confidently. “Trust me,” he said.
* * *
Three days later, Bruno and Boots were wishing with all their hearts that they had not put their trust in George. Lorelei now stood at fifty-eight cents per share.
“We’re doomed,” moaned Boots dismally, unable to concentrate on his homework. “The guys’ll kill us. The girls’ll kill us. The Fish’ll kill us. In fact, I think I’ll kill myself and save them the trouble.”
“Forty-four hundred down the drain,” mourned Bruno. “That George! Why didn’t you warn me about him?”
“I did warn you! You wouldn’t listen! You never listen! He’s a lunatic!”
“George still says we should hold on and we’ll make our money,” said Bruno. “But it sure doesn’t look as if our stock is going to go up.”
“I say we sell,” said Boots, “while we still have some money. It makes sense to try and salvage something out of this mess.”
“Well, I don’t know …” Bruno began. He glanced out the window. “Hey, what’s going on outside? All the guys are out there.”
“They’re probably gathering a mob to run us out of town,” Boots predicted miserably.
Go Jump in the Pool! Page 11