at Scrimmage’s the night of the riot, had assumed him to be at the heart of the disturbance. The cost: ten demerits, which, coupled with two he had picked up for being seen outside without his tie, brought his total to forty-one. In spite of his isolation, he was never lonely, since all his time was spent writing lines.
Boots, along with most of the boys at Macdonald Hall, was doing his very best to stay out of Mr. Wizzle’s way and avoid getting any more demerits. Boots was not happy, however, because Bruno was still angry, still having nothing to do with him. He was finding the silence in the divided room 306 awfully hard to bear. And the scratching of Bruno’s pen grinding out hundreds of punishment lines did nothing to alleviate the tension.
Meanwhile, Mr. Wizzle was hard at work redesigning the curriculum of Macdonald Hall, sometimes to the shock of the students, always to the dismay of the teachers.
It was a week after the big riot. Mr. Sturgeon was walking down the basement stairs of the Faculty Building and accidentally came upon his entire teaching staff beneath thestairs, crowded around a dusty card table. The Headmaster raised an eyebrow. “Don’t I get invited to staff meetings anymore?”
Mr. Stratton flushed. “Well, William, we were just having a little discussion about — uh — Wizzle.”
Mr. Sturgeon smiled lightly. “It didn’t look much like a poker game. But is it a revolution?”
“He’s trying to tell me how to teach gym!” blurted Coach Flynn angrily. “He couldn’t manage a deep knee-bend if he practised for a week! Uh — I mean, he doesn’t have the experience and —”
“I know what you mean, Alex,” said the Headmaster. “Any other comments?”
There was a babble of voices.
“One at a time, please.”
Mr. Hubert stroked his beard in exasperation. “He wants me to teach chemistry by computer, so he wrote a program in his blasted WizzleWare to simulate an experiment. He spent the whole class downloading it on my PC, which crashed the second he clicked
Install
. Now he wants me to hold up my lessons until he can get it up and working. What are we supposed to do in the meantime? Make fudge?”
“One of my students has stopped paying attention in class and spends all his time writing lines. He’s been at it for days.”
“You have Walton, too, eh?” said Mr. Stratton. “Wizzle insists that when I teach math I have to explain to my students the practical applications of what we’re doing. I told him to go ahead and he went right up there and told the boys they have to know algebra because at any time in later life they may becalled upon to factor a polynomial by completing the square. They all laughed in his face and he gave a class detention and demerits all around.”
“The English Department has a more serious grievance,” said Mr. Foley, tight-lipped. “Mr. Wizzle has eliminated practically everything that we do.”
“At least you’ve got a department,” said Mr. Fudge, the guidance counsellor. “Wizzle has taken over mine. That WizzleWare has a program to psychoanalyze the students, and you wouldn’t believe what it’s come up with.”
Mr. Sturgeon held up his hands for silence. “Enough. I’ve been bringing matters like this before the Board ever since Mr. Wizzle got here. They are a hundred percent sure he’s a genius, so my hands are tied. We’ll just have to tolerate the situation and do our best to teach under the circumstances.” He smiled thinly. “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Yeah,” blurted Flynn, “we could be at Scrimmage’s. I hear Peabody decided to retrain their phys. ed. teacher and now she’s at Toronto General recuperating from near-fatal exhaustion.”
There was a chorus of laughter. Mr. Sturgeon sighed.
* * *
At Miss Scrimmage’s the atmosphere was just as tense. From reveille at 6 AM to taps at 10 PM, Miss Peabody’s reign of terror rolled on.
When she was not running laps, Cathy Burton was waging war
Boots, along with most of the boys at Macdonald Hall, was doing his very best to stay out of Mr. Wizzle’s way and avoid getting any more demerits. Boots was not happy, however, because Bruno was still angry, still having nothing to do with him. He was finding the silence in the divided room 306 awfully hard to bear. And the scratching of Bruno’s pen grinding out hundreds of punishment lines did nothing to alleviate the tension.
Meanwhile, Mr. Wizzle was hard at work redesigning the curriculum of Macdonald Hall, sometimes to the shock of the students, always to the dismay of the teachers.
It was a week after the big riot. Mr. Sturgeon was walking down the basement stairs of the Faculty Building and accidentally came upon his entire teaching staff beneath thestairs, crowded around a dusty card table. The Headmaster raised an eyebrow. “Don’t I get invited to staff meetings anymore?”
Mr. Stratton flushed. “Well, William, we were just having a little discussion about — uh — Wizzle.”
Mr. Sturgeon smiled lightly. “It didn’t look much like a poker game. But is it a revolution?”
“He’s trying to tell me how to teach gym!” blurted Coach Flynn angrily. “He couldn’t manage a deep knee-bend if he practised for a week! Uh — I mean, he doesn’t have the experience and —”
“I know what you mean, Alex,” said the Headmaster. “Any other comments?”
There was a babble of voices.
“One at a time, please.”
Mr. Hubert stroked his beard in exasperation. “He wants me to teach chemistry by computer, so he wrote a program in his blasted WizzleWare to simulate an experiment. He spent the whole class downloading it on my PC, which crashed the second he clicked
Install
. Now he wants me to hold up my lessons until he can get it up and working. What are we supposed to do in the meantime? Make fudge?”
“One of my students has stopped paying attention in class and spends all his time writing lines. He’s been at it for days.”
“You have Walton, too, eh?” said Mr. Stratton. “Wizzle insists that when I teach math I have to explain to my students the practical applications of what we’re doing. I told him to go ahead and he went right up there and told the boys they have to know algebra because at any time in later life they may becalled upon to factor a polynomial by completing the square. They all laughed in his face and he gave a class detention and demerits all around.”
“The English Department has a more serious grievance,” said Mr. Foley, tight-lipped. “Mr. Wizzle has eliminated practically everything that we do.”
“At least you’ve got a department,” said Mr. Fudge, the guidance counsellor. “Wizzle has taken over mine. That WizzleWare has a program to psychoanalyze the students, and you wouldn’t believe what it’s come up with.”
Mr. Sturgeon held up his hands for silence. “Enough. I’ve been bringing matters like this before the Board ever since Mr. Wizzle got here. They are a hundred percent sure he’s a genius, so my hands are tied. We’ll just have to tolerate the situation and do our best to teach under the circumstances.” He smiled thinly. “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Yeah,” blurted Flynn, “we could be at Scrimmage’s. I hear Peabody decided to retrain their phys. ed. teacher and now she’s at Toronto General recuperating from near-fatal exhaustion.”
There was a chorus of laughter. Mr. Sturgeon sighed.
* * *
At Miss Scrimmage’s the atmosphere was just as tense. From reveille at 6 AM to taps at 10 PM, Miss Peabody’s reign of terror rolled on.
When she was not running laps, Cathy Burton was waging war
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