Fizzlebert Stump by A.F. Harrold Page A

cart.
    Fizz was on his third lap of the school’s big field. It wasn’t actually all that big, Fizz thought, most of the parks the circus parked in were bigger than this, but still after two and a half laps he was growing pretty sick of it.
    â€˜Get those knees up, Truffle,’ Mr Carvery shouted through a megaphone.
    He was only two metres away from Fizz, so the megaphone wasn’t strictly necessary, but at this point in the day Mr Carvery was being a P.E. teacher and P.E. teachers as a general rule aren’t strictly necessary either, so it all balanced out.
    In the middle of the field the rest of the class were playing rounders.
    â€˜Throw harder, Perkins,’ Mr Carvery megaphoned at the boy who’d just thrown the ball.
    He turned back to Fizz.
    â€˜Faster, Truffle, faster!’
    Fizz was running at a sensible speed, not too fast because doing unlimited laps of a sports field wasn’t a sprint. He was just going steady and because he was rather a fit young man, having helped out around the circus a lot, he wasn’t even very out of breath yet.This infuriated Mr Carvery who, wearing his P.E. teacher’s metaphorical (and megaphonical) hat, hated children who didn’t struggle, whimper and collapse. (It was his job to give children ‘encouragement’. He liked giving them ‘encouragement’, through his megaphone, and preferably in front of their friends. If he could give so much ‘encouragement’ that the wheezing embarrassed crying child wet itself as well, then his day felt complete. (What fun is there to be had encouraging a child who can actually already run or play cricket or table tennis well?))

    As Fizz and Mr Carvery began their fourth lap of the field John Jenkins finally hit the ball with the rounders bat and sent it flying.
    Fizz didn’t notice until the ball hit the wire fence on his right and bounced across the grass in front of him.
    â€˜Well,’ boomed Mr Carvery. ‘Don’t run past it, stupid girl. Throw it back.’
    Fizz did as he was told, circled round, scooped up the ball in his hand and lobbed it back towards the middle of the field where the kids were roundering.
    Unfortunately those kids didn’t know that he was a strongboy, that is to say a junior strongman. His muscles were bigger and more excitable than a normal boy’s and when he threw the ball he’d given it an extra boost without even thinking about it.
    Thwack!
    The ball drove straight through the middle of the kids, knocking them flying.
    â€˜Truffle!’ yelled Mr Carvery. ‘What have you done?!’
    He veered his golf cart to the left and trundled at top speed towards the rounders game.
    â€˜Keep running,’ he megaphoned over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got my eye on you, you horrible little devil.’
    Fizz kept jogging, while keeping an eye on what was going on in the middle of the field.
    Mr Carvery had climbed down from his buggy, blown his whistle and was pulling children to their feet. Most of them were getting up by themselves, brushing themselves down and laughing. Only one of them, presumably-Charlotte as it happened, was clutching her head. She was on her feet, but it looked like she might be crying.
    â€˜Sick bay!’ Mr Carvery shouted through his megaphone to the poor girl, who was stood almost a whole metre away from him. (If she didn’t already have a headache from being bashed in the bonce by a ballistic ball, then she certainly had one now.) ‘Come with me!’
    Fizz watched as Mr Carvery drove his golf buggy towards the school buildings. Presumably-Charlotte walked alongside, rubbing the side of her head.
    â€˜The rest of you, play rounders!’ the teacher shouted. ‘In silence. I don’t want any complaints from the neighbours. I’ll be back in one minute.’
    Fizz took advantage of Mr Carvery’s absence to stop running and pull Dympna’s map out of his pants. It was