Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder Read Online Free PDF Page B

end they were all sitting there quietly chewing their sandwiches when Nilly suddenly exclaimed, “I have it!”
    Lisa and Doctor Proctor looked at him without much enthusiasm, since this was the fourth time in only a couple of minutes that Nilly had said he had it and so far he definitely hadn’t had it. Nilly leaped up onto the table. “We could just use the powder for the same thing we’ve been using it for so far!” he said.
    â€œBut we’re not using it for anything,” the professor said.
    â€œWe’re just making meaningless bangs,” Lisa said.
    â€œExactly!” Nilly said. “And who likes meaningless bangs better than anything?”
    â€œWell,” the professor said. “Kids, I guess. And adults who are a little childish.”
    â€œExactly! And when do they want things that bang?”
    â€œNew Year’s Eve?”
    â€œYes!” Nilly shouted, excited. “And … and … and?”
    â€œNorwegian Independence Day!” Lisa blurted out, jumping up onto the table next to Nilly. “That’s only a few days away! Don’t you see, Professor? We don’t need to come up with anything at all, we can just sell the powder the way it is!”
    The professor’s eyes widened and he stretched his thin, wrinkled neck so that he looked like some kind of shorebird. “Interesting,” he mumbled. “Very interesting. Independence Day … children … things that go boom … it’s … it’s …” With a bounce he leaped up onto the table too. “Eureka!”
    And as if on cue, the three of them started dancing a victory dance around the table.

Conductor Madsen and the Dølgen School Marching Band
    MR. MADSEN WAS standing in the gym with both arms out in front of him. Facing him sat the twenty students who made up the Dølgen School Marching Band. Mr. Madsen squeezed a baton between his right thumb and index finger, his other eight fingers splayed in all directions. He had closedhis eyes, and for a second he imagined he was far away from the bleachers, worn wood floor, and stinky gym mats, standing before a sold-out audience in a concert hall in Venice, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and cheering people in formal clothes in the balcony seats. Then Mr. Madsen opened his eyes again.
    â€œReady?” he yelled, wrinkling his nose so his dark aviator sunglasses wouldn’t slide down. Because unlike Mrs. Strobe, Mr. Madsen had a short, fat nose with black pores.
    None of the twenty faces in the chairs in front of him looked like they were ready. But they didn’t protest, either, so Mr. Madsen counted down as if for a rocket launch.
    â€œFour—three—two—one!”
    Then Mr. Madsen swung his baton as if it were a magic wand, and the Dølgen School Marching Band began to play. Not like a rocket, exactly. More like atrain that, snorting and puffing, started to move. As usual, the drums had started playing long before Mr. Madsen got to one. Now he was just waiting for the rest of the band. First came a screech of a trombone, then a French horn bleated in the wrong key, before two clarinets played almost the same note. The two trumpet players, the twins Truls and Trym Trane, were picking their noses. Finally, Petra managed to get her tuba to make a sound, and Per made a hesitant tap on the base drum.
    â€œNo, no, no!” Mr. Madsen called, losing hope and waving his baton defensively. But just like a train, the Dølgen School Marching Band was hard to stop once it got going. And when they tried to stop, it sounded like a ton of kitchen implements falling on the floor.
Crash! Bang! Toooot!
When it was finally quiet and the windows at Dølgen School had stopped vibrating, Mr. Madsen took off his aviator glasses.
    â€œMy dear ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Do youknow how many days there are left until Independence Day?”
    No one said anything.
    Mr.