Treasure Fever! (2 page)

Jenny and I got up and went over to him.

‘Newton!' I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘What's the matter?'

Newton gulped. He blinked and stared at me with big round eyes as if he'd never seen me before.

‘M-Mrs Chalkboard!' said Newton. ‘Sh-she's late!'

‘It's okay!' said Jenny, putting her hand on Newton's other shoulder and patting it lightly. ‘She's just a little bit late, that's all.'

‘B-b-but she's never late!' stammered Newton. ‘Wh-what if she doesn't come? What then?'

‘Then they'll send a substitute,' said Jenny. ‘Everything will be fine. Her car has probably just broken down.'

‘She's probably just been held up in traffic,' I offered.

‘Impossible,' said Fiona, returning from her vigil at the door. ‘Mrs Chalkboard doesn't have a car. She catches the bus.'

‘Ah, yes,' I said. ‘Good point. Thanks for your help, Fiona.'

‘Don't mention it,' said Fiona, completely missing my sarcasm.

‘What if she's been in an accident?' said Newton.

‘I don't think that's likely,' said Jenny. ‘You know how careful Mrs Chalkboard is.'

‘Yes, but careful people can still be involved in accidents,' said Fiona. ‘That's why they are called
accidents
. Something may have happened to the bus.'

Newton's face was getting whiter and whiter, if that was even possible.

‘Yeah,' said Jack, taking up where Fiona left off. ‘There might have been an oil spill on the road and the bus skidded and went over a cliff . . . into shark-infested water . . . and the sharks got into the bus and all the passengers got eaten alive . . . and all that was left was their skeletons. Then imagine if Mrs Chalkboard's skeleton climbed back up the cliff and hitched a ride to school and then came in the classroom and—'

‘JACK!' said Jenny, ‘for goodness' sake, STOP IT! You're scaring Newton to death! I'm sure Mrs Chalkboard is fine!'

‘Then where is she?' said Fiona, getting up and checking the corridor again. ‘She should be here by now. We're supposed to be doing maths.'

‘So what's the problem?' said Clive. ‘We're supposed to be doing maths and we're
not
doing maths! That's
good
, isn't it?'

‘But I
like
maths!' said Fiona.

‘Me too!' said David.

‘I hate maths!' said Clive. ‘You two should get your brains examined.'

‘You should
get
a brain, Clive,' said David. ‘Maybe you'd enjoy maths more.'

‘You'd better watch your mouth, Worthy,' said Clive, ‘or else.'

‘Or else what?' said David.

‘Or else,' said Clive, ‘I'll tell my brother what you said. And I can tell you now, he's not going to like it.'

‘Tell your brother whatever you want,' said David. ‘He doesn't scare me.'

‘I'm going to tell him that you said that, too,' said Clive. ‘You're going to be sorry. You're going to be
really
sorry! You're going to be
really, really—
'

Newton's eyes were almost popping out of his head.

‘Everyone,' pleaded Jenny, ‘could you please PLEASE PLEASE stop talking about scary things. You're upsetting Newton!'

‘He's a cry-baby,' said Clive.

‘And you've got a big mouth!' I said.

‘I'm going to tell my brother you said that,' said Clive. ‘And I can tell you now, he's not going to like it.'

‘Is there a single thing in the world your brother
does
like?' I asked.

‘Yeah,' said Clive. ‘Beating people up. He
really
likes that. My brother's really tough. He could beat up this whole class, all at the same time, if he wanted.'

Newton yelped. The thought of Clive's brother, Fred Durkin, beating up the whole class was clearly too much for him.

Poor Newton.

If he'd only known what
he
was going to end up doing to Fred Durkin!

But, then, it's probably just as well that he didn't know. That
definitely
would have been too much for him.

Suddenly Fiona ran from the door back to her desk. ‘Shush, everyone,' she said. ‘Here comes Principal Greenbeard . . . and he's got somebody with him!'

Something was obviously up. Maybe Mrs Chalkboard really
had
had an accident.

At the mention of Principal Greenbeard's name, Newton gasped.

‘It's going to be okay, Newton,' I said.

Newton just stared at me, too scared to speak.

Jenny and I each gave him one last pat and then went back to our seats.

We had just sat down when Principal Greenbeard and another man walked into the room.

Principal Greenbeard, dressed in a white naval uniform like the captain of a ship, saluted the class.

Now, before I go on, what you should know about Principal Greenbeard is that he's not actually the captain of a ship. He just loves ships and sailing.

And when I say he loves ships and sailing, I mean he
really
loves ships and sailing.

In fact, he loves ships and sailing so much that he acts as if the school is one huge ship, that all the teachers and students are sailors, and that he, of course, is the captain.

It's important that you know this, otherwise you might think he is a bit crazy.

Well, obviously he is a
bit
crazy, but he isn't all crazy. He's just crazy about anything to do with ships and sailing.

‘Good morning, crew,' said Principal Greenbeard.

We all jumped to our feet and saluted him. We were well trained.

‘Good morning, Principal Greenbeard,' we all chanted. Well, all except for Newton, who just sat there, frozen.

‘I'd like you to welcome a new member of the crew aboard the good ship
Northwest Southeast Central
,' he said. ‘This is Mr Brainfright. He will be your commanding officer for the rest of the term. Unfortunately, Mrs Chalkboard has hit some heavy weather and has had to take a spot of shore leave. So I'm depending on you all to help Mr Brainfright get his sea legs and learn the ropes. I'm sure if we all heave to and pull together we'll get the old tub through. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Aye, aye, Principal Greenbeard,' we said.

Principal Greenbeard turned to Mr Brainfright
and saluted. ‘Happy sailing, sir!' he said, and marched swiftly out of the room.

We stared at Mr Brainfright.

Mr Brainfright stared back at us, a wild gleam in his piercing green eyes.

Mr Brainfright was not like any other teacher I'd ever seen at Northwest Southeast Central School . . . and that's putting it mildly.

He was wearing a purple jacket, an orange shirt, and a bright green tie.

His hair darted out of his head in all sorts of crazy directions as if moments before stepping into our classroom he'd suffered a severe electric shock.

Plus he had that wild gleam in his eyes.

Mr Brainfright rubbed his hands together and smiled at us. ‘Well, Class 5C,' he said. ‘What are you going to teach me this morning?'

Now I don't know what the teachers at your school are like, but none of the teachers at Northwest Southeast Central have
ever
begun a lesson by asking us—the students—what
we
were going to teach
them
.

As we were about to find out, Mr Brainfright did things a little differently to other teachers.

Well, a
lot
differently, in fact.

‘But you're supposed to teach
us
!' said Fiona.

‘Where on earth did you get that idea?' said Mr Brainfright.

‘Well, it's obvious,' said Fiona. ‘You're the teacher!'

Mr Brainfright smiled. ‘And you think teachers know everything?'

‘Well, yes,' said Fiona.

Mr Brainfright stared at her. ‘
Every
thing?' he said.

‘Well, no, not
every
thing,' said Fiona. ‘But they are supposed to know more than the students.'

‘I wouldn't be so sure of that,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘Who can tell me something you know that I don't?'

‘Our names!' said Jack, always quick off the mark. ‘You don't know them and we do.'

Mr Brainfright nodded. ‘Correct! Give me another one.'

‘How to jump down a set of stairs on a skateboard without falling off,' said Gretel.

‘Well, actually, I
can
do that,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘But I have yet to master the handrail-slide . . . so, yes, your point still stands. There is still much I have to learn about skating the board. Another!'

‘I bet you don't know how to groom a horse!' said Gina.

‘Excellent!' said Mr Brainfright. ‘You've got me there. I wouldn't even know which end of the horse to start at!'

‘Oh, that's easy,' said Penny. ‘The head, of course. You get a currycomb and—' Before she could continue, she was interrupted by Clive, which was a lucky thing because when Gina or Penny start talking about horses they can go on for a long time.

‘You don't know how to make super-strength spitballs!' said Clive.

‘Got me again,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘It is an art of which I am sadly and woefully ignorant.'

Clive looked confused. I don't think he understood what Mr Brainfright was saying. But then, he doesn't understand much, apart from making super-strength spitballs and threatening people with his brother.

‘How to fly!' said Grant.

‘That's true,' said Mr Brainfright. ‘I
don't
know how to fly. But I suspect that you don't either.'

‘Not yet,' said Grant. ‘But my dad is an inventor and he's working on a jet-propulsion unit small enough to fit in the heel of a shoe, and when it's ready he said I could be the first to use it.'