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anything.
    This was, of course, Wilbur Hackenschleimer, who pledged that he would lift a piano for the show. Bruno was thrilled with the idea, though the crowd had other reactions.
    “Don’t let him do it, Bruno!”
    “He’ll wind up in traction!”
    “He’ll kill himself!”
    “A hernia!”
    “A slipped disc!”
    “Why would anybody want to lift a piano?”
    But Bruno’s decision was final, and Super Hackenschleimer was in show business.
    “Next.”
    Next was a magician who wasn’t too bad at demonstrating that the hand was quicker than the eye — if not
his
hand. He promised to polish his routine, though, and Bruno had Boots sign him up because the show needed a magic act.
    The auditions went on until five-thirty when the dinner bell rang. While en route to the dining hall, Bruno and Boots discussed the acts they had seen, and which of the “possibles” deserved to be put into the show. It was in the cafeteria line that they found themselves standing next to George Wexford-Smyth III.
    “What outrageous sort of contest were you organizing in the auditorium today?” George asked Bruno in disgust. “It caused a stampede in the hall and I was almost trampled!”
    “It’s not for you,” Boots cut in. “It’s vulgar.”
    “I would expect it to be,” said George as Bruno and Boots abandoned him and took their trays off to their table.
    * * *
    Tickets for the big show, scheduled for a week from Saturday, went on sale immediately. Invitations were mailed out to the parents, and quite a few agreed to attend. Rehearsals began in earnest.
    Bruno had appointed himself Master of Ceremonies, and in addition to running the rehearsals, he and Boots were hard at work putting together short comedy routines to spot in between the various acts. Late one night, after lights-out, Bruno hauled Boots out of bed with an idea for yet another hilarious skit.
    “I finally get to sleep after writing one of those ridiculous letters to my parents about how happy I am at the Hall — the fourth one in two days!” Boots moaned, “and you have to wake me up! Why can’t you get your ideas in the daytime?”
    “Because in the daytime my head is all balled up with math and geography and junk like that. Now, listen. You’ll come out and say: ‘Good evening, ladies and germs.’”
    “Are you crazy?” Boots exploded. “People stopped laughing at that fifty years ago!”
    “Comedy doesn’t change,” Bruno lectured him. “If it was funny fifty years ago, it’ll be funny in our show.”
    “We’ll be lynched,” Boots predicted mournfully. “That’s even worse than your ‘ugliest man in the world’ routine.”
    “Oh, go back to bed!” Bruno grumbled. “You have the sense of humour of a loaf of bread! You’ll be happier at York Academy where nobody laughs because they’re too stupid!”
    “And what about some of the acts?” Boots continued. “What about Wilbur? He doesn’t come to rehearsal. How do we know he can lift a piano?”
    “Don’t worry. Wilbur could lift the auditorium and everybody in it.”
    “What about the Scrimmettes?” Boots persisted. “We haven’t even seen their act!”
    “They’re rehearsing privately,” said Bruno.
    “That’s Cathy, Bruno!
Cathy!
There’s no telling what they’ll do!”
    “They dance,” Bruno replied calmly. “They have all kinds of ballet lessons at Scrimmage’s. I’m sure they’ll be good.”
    They were interrupted by a tapping at the door and the voice of the Housemaster, Mr. Fudge. “Hey, knock it off in there. It’s past midnight.”
    Bruno and Boots went back to bed.

Chapter 6
On Stage, Please
    “Boots, we’re playing to a full house!” exclaimed Bruno as he peeked through the curtains.
    “I saw,” replied Boots, trying to ignore the nervous quivering of his stomach. “Bruno, do we really have to do all that stupid stuff, especially ‘the ugliest man in the world’?”
    “We do the show
as is
,” Bruno insisted. “We’ll be great.” He