Beware the Fisj (16 page)

REPORT TO: RCMP, Special Division, Ottawa.

SUBJECT: Interference with TV broadcasting in Chutney, Ontario, and surrounding area.

OFFICER ASSIGNED: Sgt. Harold P. Featherstone, Jr.

I began my investigation by observing several interfering broadcasts, all calling attention to an individual known as the Fish. Despite a Headquarters briefing indicating the possible development of terrorist activity, I instantly deduced that the broadcasts were the work of amateurs. Through careful investigation, I managed to connect these broadcasts with several unusual incidents occurring in the Chutney area. Information resulting from my investigations led me to Macdonald Hall, a boys’ school located south of Chutney. At that time I made sparing use of the local police force, and received minor assistance from an OPP officer.

I discovered, as I had suspected throughout, that the broadcasts were being made unwittingly by a group of students at Macdonald Hall, who referred to their Headmaster as “The Fish,” his name being Sturgeon. Since their school was in financial trouble, they were seeking publicity. I, of course, used my influence to see that they received it. All involved were very grateful to me and to Special Division, since the school’s financial problems have now been resolved.

Sergeant Harold P. Featherstone, Jr.

Be sure to read the next hilarious Macdonald Hall adventure:

“He’s not going to like it,” Boots O’Neal said nervously to Wilbur Hackenschleimer and Larry Wilson. The three boys were draped in various poses over the furniture of room 306 in Dormitory 3.

“I don’t like it much myself,” grumbled big Wilbur. “The last time I wore a suit was at my aunt’s wedding. The tie was so tight I couldn’t even eat!”

“A dress code at Macdonald Hall!” exclaimed Larry in disgust. “Where did they get an idea like that anyway? There’s never been a dress code at this school before!”

“All I know,” repeated Boots with a sigh, “is that he’s not going to like it. And when he gets here, who knows what he’ll do?”

“
I
know what he’ll do,” said Wilbur sourly. “He’ll rant and rave and tell us our world is crumbling around us.”

“And,” added Larry, “he’ll holler about the sanctity of Macdonald Hall being threatened. And before you know it —”

“Bang!” finished Boots. “He’ll have the whole campus organized and we’ll be up to our ears in some crazy scheme!”

“Maybe he won’t mind,” suggested Larry hopefully. “I suppose there are worse things than having to wear a jacket and tie to classes.”

“Name one,” growled Wilbur.

“Well, there’s …” Larry’s voice trailed off. The sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor outside broke the silence. Boots flung open the door and in burst Sidney Rampulsky, stubbing his toe on the leg of the desk and flying full force into the wall. He picked himself up, grinned sheepishly and said, “Hi, guys. I thought I’d better warn you, Boots. The bus just got here, and he’s on it.”

Boots groaned.

“He’s coming,” said Wilbur sadly.

“How did he look?” asked Larry anxiously.

Sidney shrugged. “I don’t know. Like he always looks.”

Larry got up. “Maybe I’ll go back to my room. I’m getting kind of nervous.”

“Not me,” said Wilbur. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

The four boys remained frozen as they heard footsteps coming down the hall. Then he was standing there in the doorway, his dark hair unruly as usual, a suitcase in each hand, a package under his arm, a wide grin showing his even white teeth.

Bruno Walton strolled into room 306, dropped his luggage unceremoniously on the floor and threw himself backward onto the bed that was traditionally his. He breathed deeply.

“Ah, Macdonald Hall air. It’s great to be back!”

“Home sweet home,” smiled Boots weakly. “Same old room.”

“Same old faces,” agreed Bruno, looking at the other boys. “Hi, Sidney — Wilbur — Larry. Good to see you.” Without getting up, he extended his hand to Boots, his roommate and best friend. The two shook hands enthusiastically.

“He hasn’t even mentioned it!” whispered Larry.

“So,” said Boots heartily, “what kind of a summer did you have, Bruno?”

“Dull. That’s why it’s so good to be back at the Hall. Nothing ever happens at home.”

“What is it that happens here?” asked Boots nervously.

Bruno shrugged. “You know — the usual. There’s never a dull moment at Macdonald Hall. Hey, you’ve got to hear this! Something weird happened. When I got on the train, my mother handed me this package. She said it was a surprise and I shouldn’t open it until I got to school. So I opened it on the train, and you won’t believe what was in there! Two suits! Jackets, pants, shirts, ties! Has my mother gone nuts? I mean, what am I going to do with that stuff?”

Boots, Wilbur, Larry and Sidney exchanged uneasy glances.

Boots took a deep breath for courage. “Bruno, you’re not going to like this, but here it is: There’s a dress code at the Hall this year.”

Bruno’s jaw dropped. He stared at his roommate and mouthed the words, “Dress code?”

“Yeah,” said Larry. “From now on, whenever we go out of our rooms, we have to wear a jacket and tie.”

All the colour drained from Bruno’s face. He sat in pained silence for a moment and then said, “Well, obviously there’s been some mistake.”

“No mistake,” said Boots. “It’s a new policy for Macdonald Hall.”

Bruno looked thoughtful. “What a bummer!” He perked up and slapped Boots heartily on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about the dress code. We’ll get rid of it in no time at all. Now, at dinner tonight, we’ll get up a committee …”

* * *

William R. Sturgeon, Headmaster of Macdonald Hall, stood in the outer office and fixed the computer monitor with the cold gaze that, coupled with his surname, had earned him the nickname “The Fish” among his students. The computer stared back — or appeared to. The screen showed hundreds of thousands of lightning-fast operations — decades of student records being resorted and rearranged, a school’s proud history converted to bundles of digital data. It was the Headmaster who looked away first.

“I find this difficult to accept,” he said to his secretary, Mrs. Davis. “After so many years as part of a human institution, it’s hard to believe that someone can download some new program and reduce our boys to a series of numbers.”

“I can’t get used to that Mr. Wizzle,” said Mrs. Davis primly. “He and his software make me nervous. I can’t help feeling that things are never going to be the same around here.”

Mr. Sturgeon smiled sadly. “I suppose it’s all in the name of progress.”

“Progress!” repeated Mrs. Davis distastefully. “Just because a thing is new and modern doesn’t make it good.”

Into the office walked Walter C. Wizzle, a short, squat young man with jet-black, curly hair. He was impeccably dressed, and his step was jaunty, giving the impression of boundless energy.

“Good afternoon,” he boomed. His voice had an enthusiasm that matched his walk. “I see you’re admiring the new software. I wrote the code myself.”

“I’m not sure admiration is the correct word, Wizzle,” replied Mr. Sturgeon wryly.

“It makes the screen flicker,” said Mrs. Davis coldly.

Mr. Wizzle smiled engagingly. “Oh, we’ll all get used to that very soon,” he promised.

“We
all
don’t have to work beside it,” replied Mrs. Davis pointedly.

Mr. Wizzle turned to the Headmaster. “Have you some time now, Mr. Sturgeon? I want to tell you about the PowerPoint presentation I’ve put together to show the students at tomorrow’s assembly.”

The two walked into the inner office and shut the door.

Mrs. Davis glared at the door and then at the computer.
“Software!”
she muttered. “Soft in the head would be more like it!”

Mr. Wizzle settled back comfortably in the visitor’s chair. “Now, I propose to explain to the students exactly what WizzleWare is for — to modernize an out-of-date school.”

Mr. Sturgeon’s knuckles whitened on the arm of his chair. “May I remind you that this out-of-date school has the highest academic standing in all of Ontario!”

“Admittedly,” said Mr. Wizzle. “But everything is so hopelessly old-fashioned. The teaching methods are from a bygone era. The systems are archaic. WizzleWare and I going to change all that.”

“Then what,” asked Mr. Sturgeon, “is the purpose of your dress code? I should think modernization would go with a more relaxed atmosphere.”

“I explained that to Mr. Snow and your Board of Directors when they hired me. My theory of handling students is based on my own recent psychological research. Modern education is open enough, but too permissive. My new system retains the openness but adds discipline. The theory is that a boy who is sloppily dressed will slouch, and the sloppiness will extend to his work. A boy who is smartly dressed will sit up straight, be more alert and turn out better work.”

The Headmaster nodded slowly. “And the Board of Directors agreed with you?”

“Better than that,” said Mr. Wizzle enthusiastically. “They voted unanimously to give me a free hand to transform Macdonald Hall into the school of the future!”

Mr. Sturgeon nodded again, but his expression clearly stated his fondness for the school of the past.

The young man seemed to sense this. “With, of course, some input from you as Headmaster.”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Sturgeon grimly.

* * *

At a corner table in the dining hall, Bruno Walton was holding a council of war.

“All right, you guys, who knows anything about this dress code?”

“Well,” began studious Elmer Drimsdale, “starting tomorrow morning with the opening assembly, everyone must wear a jacket and tie for all school functions, including classes and meals —”

“Yeah, yeah, we all know
that
,” said Bruno impatiently. “What I want to know is why The Fish would do this to us! We’ve never had a dress code here before. And it’s not as though any of us ever go around dressed in real rags. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know if this has anything to do with it,” put in Larry Wilson, who was Mr. Sturgeon’s office messenger, “but I checked in at the office half an hour ago and it’s, like, nuts. Every computer in the place is running some crazy new software program, and half of them are down because they don’t have enough memory!”

“Software?”

“Yes,” said Elmer, his eyes lighting up behind his thick glasses. “While I don’t recognize the program itself, it is clearly an example of a new generation of software. It makes use of superior processing speed and algorithmic multi-tasking to simulate real brain function. Now more than ever, computers can
think
.”

“No, that can’t be it,” said Bruno with characteristic singlemindedness. “Computers don’t care what we wear. Haven’t you guys heard anything at all about the dress code?”

“Maybe they’ll explain it at the assembly tomorrow morning,” suggested Mark Davies, the editor of the school newspaper.

“But we’ll be in our ties by then!” protested Bruno. “I want to knock this thing off before it gets started!”

“I don’t understand what all the fuss is about,” said Elmer, who habitually sported a white shirt and neat black tie. “There’s nothing wrong with wearing a tie.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” complained Chris Talbot.

“And you can’t eat,” added Wilbur, lifting his head out of the huge casserole he was tackling.

“I can’t
move
in a tie!” put in Sidney Rampulsky.

“That’s good,” grinned Boots. “That’s a plus. If Sidney can’t move, he won’t be falling down and breaking things.”

“Aw, lay off!” Sidney gestured in annoyance and accidentally thrust his hand into the hot mashed potatoes. “Ow!”

A roar of laughter rocked the dining hall.

Bruno stood up and pounded the table. “How can you laugh when our world is crumbling around us? The sanctity of Macdonald Hall is being threatened! You guys don’t seem to realize the seriousness of this situation! Tomorrow morning you’ll have to put your necks in a noose! Now, as chairman of the Anti-Dress-Code Committee, I’m going to lead the delegation to The Fish’s house tonight. Who’s coming with me?”

There was dead silence, broken only by the sound of Wilbur slurping at his dinner.

“Come on!” groaned Bruno, annoyed. “You can’t expect Boots and me to go alone!”

“Me? Why me?” squealed Boots. “I didn’t volunteer for anything!”

“You’re vice-chairman of the committee,” explained Bruno. “You have to go. Come on, I need some volunteers. Wilbur, Elmer, Sidney, Chris, Larry, Mark — there, that’s enough. That should do it.”