CHAPTER 7

ack at Privilege House on Monday morning, Jacob Two-Two and the other boys had to contend once more with their new headmaster, the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, who prowled the school halls searching for boys with shirt-tails hanging out, faces unwashed or shoes unshined, or with jacket buttons missing. He could often be seen munching on a chocolate bar that he had seized from one of the boys. “Bad for your teeth. Hand it over immediately, child.”

Mr. I.M. Greedyguts was rumored to be sweet on Miss Sour Pickle, and vice versa, but that was the least of the boys’ problems. That was nothing compared to the daily ordeal of their school lunches that were now provided by Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse. These lunches were either tasteless, horrible, or just plain disgusting, depending on the day of the week.

No sooner did the boys sit down to lunch that Monday than Mr. I.M. Greedyguts rose from his multi-pillowed throne at the head table, his triple chins wobbling, his huge stomach quaking, and called out, “What do we say before we dig in, my darlings?”

“YUMMY, YUMMY, SAYS MY TUMMY!” the boys chorused back, some of them holding their noses.

“These delicious lunches,” proclaimed Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, “rich in vitamins, swimming in minerals, are prepared for your benefit, at great expense, by an expert in the field, Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse.” Then he cupped a hand to his ear and waited.

“Applaud,” shrieked Miss Sour Pickle. “Clap hands at once, boys.”

The boys applauded.

“And how do we show how grateful we are, children?” demanded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

“WE EAT EVERY LAST MORSEL ON OUR PLATES!” they answered in unison.

Miss Lapointe, the French teacher, who sat at Jacob Two-Two’s table, whispered, “You had better do what he says, children.” But she shed a tear on their behalf.

Watery soup was followed by itsy-bitsy chunks of fatty meat floating in a lukewarm muddy sauce. The bread rolls were either three days old or came from a cement factory and dessert was a mashed brown mush.

“What’s this supposed to be?” asked Jacob Two-Two.

“Why, it’s banana supreme,” said Miss Sour Pickle.

“Ugh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Ugh.”

Another boy at the table, Mickey Horowitz, groaned.

Robby Burton crossed his eyes.

“I’m going to be sick,” said Chris Lucas.

What made matters worse for the boys was that every day, their eyes filled with longing, they had to watch as a special luncheon tray was wheeled in for Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. Today it was a sizzling two-inch-thick rib steak, served with a mountain of crisp French fries, and followed by a foot-high banana split, topped with hot chocolate sauce.

“Unfortunately,” explained Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, “I suffer from ulcers, dyspepsia, stomach acid, heartburn, constipation, gas, iron, aluminum, tin, and zinc deficiencies, and allergies too numerous to mention, and can only look on in envy at your daily gourmet repast.”

Then, after he had gobbled up everything on his plate, washing each mouthful down with red wine, he belched loudly three times, stifled a yawn, and then made his usual announcement: “I am not to be disturbed in my office for the next hour, as I have important papers to go through.”

But even as the sleepy Mr. I.M. Greedyguts prepared to retire to his office, where the hall outside would soon resound with his snores, a pencil-thin Miss Sour Pickle stood up and said, “Mr. Greedyguts, sir, I have to report that Jacob Two-Two has been unspeakably rude to you.”

“What’s that?”

“Behind your back, Your Honor,” she said. “As you were crossing the schoolyard this morning. He stuck out his tongue at you.”

“He did, did he?” An outraged Mr. I.M. Greedyguts glared at Jacob Two-Two. “You are lucky we haven’t got dungeons here,” he said, “as we had during my army days. Or that, because of meddling, sentimental do-gooders, the Chinese water torture is now illegal. And I am also no longer allowed to make a bad boy stand at attention outside-preferably during a thunderstorm or, better still, a blizzard - for, say, eight hours. So your punishment will require some thought …”

As Jacob Two-Two held his breath, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts began to pace up and down.

“Wait! I’ve got it! Oh, yippee for you, Greedyguts,” he said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Beginning tomorrow——” He broke off, heaving with laughter. “Starting tomorrow———” And he broke off again, quaking. “Commencing on the next school day, and continuing for the rest of the week, you, Jacob Two-Two, as appropriate to a boy who says most things twice, will be obliged to eat two portions of every delicious luncheon served here, prepared for your pleasure in the incomparable, award-winning kitchens of Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse.”

“Oh, no,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

After school, as the boys waited to be collected by their mothers, Jacob Two-Two, Mickey, Robby, and Chris met in the yard.

“Oh, my stomach still aches,” said Robby. “Whatever are we going to do about these lunches?”

“I complained to my mother,” said Chris, “and she said children today are spoiled rotten, and that’s the problem.”

“My father just laughed,” said Mickey.

“Well, my father is different,” said Jacob Two-Two, “and I’m going to tell him what’s been going on here since Mr. Greedyguts became headmaster. And I’ll bet he’ll do something about it. I’ll bet he will.”