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disturbing. As he lay in the darkness he could still hear Mr. Sturgeon's
voice: "There will be no more ants, no more skunks  and no more privileges,
Walton." Bruno grinned in the darkness. He was accustomed to making his own
privileges.
It was well after midnight when Elmer finally fell asleep. About time,
thought Bruno as he opened the window and crawled out onto the deserted
campus. Staying in the shadows cast by the dark building, he made his way to
Dormitory 1 and tapped lightly on Boots' window. Several minutes passed
without an answer. Bruno's second tap echoed loudly in the stillness of the
night. Finally Boots peered out and beckoned. Bruno hoisted himself up and
through the window.
"George is in the infirmary suffering from exhaustion," Boots explained. "It
seems he doesn't run thirteen times around the campus every day."
Bruno just kept staring at the room. "Wow! What a set-up! Look at those
stereo speakers, and the zoom TV, and the  "
"And the teletype," interrupted Boots, opening the closet door to reveal a
gleaming silver machine. "I told you so."
"Boy," Bruno exclaimed, "I can hardly believe it!"
"Just wait until you see the bathroom," Boots said, motioning Bruno-inside.
"No drugstore in the country is this well equipped."
Bruno whistled. "And I thought you were exaggerating when you told me about
all this! I still say Elmer takes the cake, but George sure is a strange one!"
He sat down on George's bed. "Now, what's been happening? You first."
Grinning despite his problems, Boots related the story of George's mint
stamps, then went on to the epidemic of creeping caliotis. Bruno found it hard
to believe that anyone would spend the day dying in bed just because of a few
paint spots until Boots handed him the clipping.
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"Pretty slick."
"Veryslick," Boots agreed sarcastically. "So slick I've lost my privileges
for three months! And that means I can't go to the dance at Miss Scrimmage's
on Saturday."
"What makes you think they'd let us in there anyway? Remember what we did the
last time?"
Boots smiled as he recalled the last dance  Miss Scrimmage's gymnasium hung
with pink and silver streamers, the walls ringing with music and laughter. It
was just as the buffet supper was about to be served that the forty ounces of
Scotch Bruno and Boots had poured into the punch bowl reached Miss Scrimmage's
head. Suddenly she ripped the chaperone's badge off her shapeless black dress,
hauled a startled Mr. Sturgeon onto the dance floor and started into her own
extraordinary version of the funky chicken. At that point the young ladies
lost what little restraint they had and the party quickly turned into a wild
rock festival, with Miss Scrimmage being the life of the party. The next
morning she could not get out of bed and seemed to be suffering from something
that looked suspiciously like a hangover.
"Three months without privileges!" scoffed Bruno, jolting Boots back to the
present. "Mine were suspended indefinitely! But I don't care  Diane's not
going to be at the dance anyway."
"Cathy will," said Boots miserably. "By the way, speaking of Diane, what were
you doing with Petunia?"
With a great smile of satisfaction Bruno related the first episode of the
ants and then their second coming.
"To make a long story short," he concluded, "the exterminator has had to come
twice  atmy expense. I'm now known as Bad Luck Bruno in Dormitory 2. Elmer is
so scared of me he just about faints when I walk into the room."
"So where is all this getting us?" demanded Boots.
"I don't know about you," Bruno replied, "but my dorm is circulating a
petition to get rid of me. If it comes to you, sign it."
"But that doesn't help me," Boots complained. "I cannot andwill not live in
this hospital-stock exchange any longer!"
Bruno shrugged and stretched out on George's bed. George probably would have
collapsed had he known that his bed was absorbing another person's germs.
"We'll just have to show The Fish how awful George and Elmer really are,"
Boots decided.
"How can we do that?" Bruno protested. "They're only awful to us."
"Well then, we'll just have tomake them awful," Boots insisted. "Report to
the old cannon at 0100 hours Sunday with a collection of distinguishable Elmer
Drimsdale possessions. I'll bring some stuff belonging to George. If we can't
frame them right into the Don Jail, my name isn't Melvin P. O'Neal! As of this
moment," he added, "thep stands for 'pushed around for the last time'!"
Raid!
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George was carefully hanging up his tuxedo and brushing off the velvet
lapels. "What a superb evening!" he remarked, knowing full well how much Boots
had wanted to go to the dance. "The young ladies danced like angels, and the
ballroom was a masterpiece of decor."
"It really must have been great," Boots agreed sarcastically. "After all,
what could be more elegant than waltzing over the foul lines of a basketball
court?"
George ignored him. "And the food  a really extravagant buffet!"
"Yes, I know," said Boots sourly. "Colonel Sanders' boys make it
finger-lickin good."
"It's a shame that you were unable to attend, Melvin, but if you insist on
acting like a barbarian  "
"Just shut up and go to sleep," Boots snapped.
George changed into his pyjamas, still trying to give the impression that he
had had an enchanting evening.
"You know, I'm sort of glad I didn't go," Boots murmured reflectively. "Can
you imagine all the germs a guy could pick up at that kind of affair?"
George sniffed and got into bed without another word.
When his roommate was sound asleep, Boots went into operation. Fifteen [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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