Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ...

  Billy Bunter

  of

  Greyfriars School

  Frank Richards

  CHAPTER I

  BUNTER KNOWS

  CHAPTER II

  MANY HANDS MAKE LIGHT WORK

  “I SAY, you fellows!”

  “How,” asked Bob Cherry, “did Bunter know that we had a jug of lemonade?”

  And the Famous Five chuckled.

  “Oh, really, cherry.” Billy Bunter blinked into No. 1 Study. “I didn’t know—but I’ll have some, old chap!” And Bunter rolled in.

  Harry Wharton and Co. of the Remove were looking, and feeling, a good deal more merry and bright than they had looked, and felt, in the history class. Frank Nugent had brewed lemonade in No. 1 Study, and lemonade was grateful and comforting on a warm afternoon. The chums of the Remove were disposing of it before they went down to the nets for cricket practice, when Bunter happened.

  “Go it, old fat man,” said Bob, hospitably. “Trot out your best jewelled goblet for Bunter, Franky.”

  Drinking vessels, in the study, seemed somewhat limited. That was not uncommon in a junior study. Breakages would occur. Bob had a tumbler, Johnny Bull had a teacup with a handle, and Frank Nugent had a tea-cup without a handle, Harry Wharton had a small jam-jar, and Hurree Jamset Rain Singh a little milk-jug. But the jug of lemonade was large, the lemonade was good, the schoolboys were thirsty, and all were contented. But a goblet for Bunter was not easy to find. There seemed to be nothing available but the inkpot: and that had ink in it.

  “That’s all right, you fellows,” said Bunter, cheerfully, “I can make do with the jug, if you chaps don’t want any more.”

  Without waiting to ascertain whether the chaps wanted any more, Bunter grasped the lemonade-jug in a fat hand, and tilted it to a capacious mouth. A gurgling sound followed.

  “Don’t mind us, Bunter,” said Frank Nugent, with withering sarcasm, when the fat junior paused for breath.

  “Right-ho, old chap!” answered Bunter. Sarcasm, on Bunter, was a sheer waste. He did not even know that Nugent was being sarcastic. Having taken breath, he tilted the jug again. There was another happy gurgle.

  Bunter, a little breathless, set down an empty jug, and blinked at five staring faces.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Not like what I get at home, at Bunter Court, of course—but not bad! Got any more?”

  Harry Wharton laughed.

  “That’s the lot,” he said. “Come on, you men—time we got down to the cricket.”

  “I say, you fellows, hold on a minute,” said Bunter, hastily. “I say, I want to put in some cricket practice this afternoon.”

  “Come on, then,” said Bob, “Inky will send you down a few, and you’ll stop them—perhaps!”

  “The perhapsfulness will be terrific, in my idiotic opinion!” grinned the dusky nabob of Bhanipur.

  “I fancy I could stop anything you sent me, Inky,” said Bunter, disdainfully. “You can’t bowl, old chap! I mean, you don’t bowl like I do.”

  “Not like you do, certainfully!” assented Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. “The difference is preposterous.”

  “But I say, Quelch said I’m to take in my lines at six! That rather knocks on the head my getting any time at the nets,” said Bunter. “It’s a bit sickening when a fellow’s so keen on it. I’ve a jolly good mind not to do those lines for Quelch.”

  “You’d better have a jollier good one to do them,” grinned Bob Cherry. “Henry is rather shirty with you today, old fat man.”

  “Well, look at the injustice of it,” said Bunter, warmly. “I gave him the right answer, and then he goes and gives me lines—!

  “Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the Famous Five.

  “Blessed if I can see anything to cackle at! I don’t think Quelch ought to talk about pubs in the form-room, really—it’s not the sort of thing for Greyfriars—”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “And then look at the lines he’s given me! Making out that Charles the Second hid in the Royal Oak after the Battle of Worcester. As if he would hide in a pub—!”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” shrieked No. 1 Study.

  “Well, you can cackle, but I don’t believe Charles the Second did anything of the kind,” declared Bunter. “That’s Quelch’s idea of history, I suppose. Schoolmasters don’t know so much as they make out.”

  “You howling ass!” roared Johnny Bull, “it was an oak tree that Charley hid in, and it was called the Royal Oak because he did it.”

  “Oh!” ejaculated Bunter. This seemed quite a new idea to him. “Think so?”

  “Ha ha, ha!”

  “Well, anyhow, I’ve got the lines to do,” said Bunter. “I fancy Quelch is wrong about it, but you can’t argue with a beak. He will expect those lines. How many are you fellows going to do for me?”

  “None!” answered five voices in unison.

  “Well, I like that!” said the fat Owl, hotly. “It would be only twenty-five each for the six of us, to make up the hundred—!”

  “Oh, crumbs!” gasped Bob Cherry. “How many?”

  “I—I mean twenty,” said Bunter, hastily. “Six twenties are a hundred—you can’t teach me arithmetic, Bob Cherry.”

  “I shouldn’t like to try!” gurgled Bob.

  “Well, what about it?” asked Bunter. “You fellows make out that I dodge games practice—!”

  “No making out about it,” growled Johnny Bull. “You do dodge games practice, you fat slacker, and you’ve been whopped for it.”

  “Well, I’m not dodging it today, and it ain’t a compulsory day, either,” snorted Bunter. “I say, you fellows, I’m fearfully keen on it. I say, you help me through with my lines, and I’ll come down to the nets—it’s pretty rotten for a fellow to have to stick indoors writing lines when he wants to be at the nets. Tain’t much of an impot if we whack it out all round.”

  Billy Bunter blinked appealingly at five faces, one after another, through his big spectacles.

  Harry Wharton and Co. hesitated. But Bunter had touched the right chord. If the lazy fat Owl was keen on games practice, for once, instead of frowsting in a study armchair as usual, the Famous Five were the fellows to give him encouragement.

  “You can make your fists like mine,” urged Bunter. “Near enough for Quelch, anyway. I’ll do some of the lines myself—there!” added Bunter, in a burst of generosity. “I mean it. I never was lazy, I hope! Why, we can get the whole lot through in ten minutes, if you fellows put your beef into it. What?”

  “Oh, let’s!” said Bob. Bob Cherry was always good-natured: and there was no doubt that he was pleased to see signs of amendment in the fat slacker of the Remove.

  It was not exactly unknown in the Greyfriars Remove for fellows to lend one another a helping hand with impots: and Bunter’s really seemed a deserving case. Bob looked round at his friends, and Wharton, Nugent and Hurree Singh nodded: and Johnny Bull gave a grunt. So it was settled.

  “That’s right!” said Bunter. “I’ll start the rotten thing, and you fellows can carry on, see? Mind your spelling—Quelch might smell a rat if you put in any wrong spelling. Just copy what I write.”

  And Billy Bunter picked up a pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote the first line. Five grinning faces looked on as he wrote “King Charles II, hid in the royle oke after the Battel of Wooster.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” yelled Bob Cherry. “Are we to spell it like that, Bunter?”

  “Eh! Yes! I want you to be careful with the spelling, you know. Spelling’s rather my strong point, and I don’t want any mistakes.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “You’re wasting time c
ackling.” pointed out Bunter. “Pile in and get on with it. I want to get down to the nets, you know.”

  “Perhaps we’d better spell it Bunter’s way.” said Harry Wharton, laughing. “That’s what Quelch will expect—from Bunter.”

  “And don’t forget a few blots and smears,” grinned Bob. “Quelch will expect them too—from Bunter.”

  “I say, you fellows, get on with it,” urged Bunter.

  The Famous Five got on with it. It was only necessary to scrawl in a sprawling round-hand to make the writing sufficiently like Bunter’s. And there was little doubt that when Mr. Quelch saw the spelling, he would hardly suspect that anyone but Billy Bunter had had a hand in it.

  Many hands made light work. Bunter’s impot was finished in record time. The Owl of the Remove gathered up the sheets with great satisfaction.

  “I’ll cut down to Quelch’s study with this,” he said. “Don’t you fellows wait for me—get down and change for cricket. I’ll join you in a few ticks.”

  Harry Wharton and Co. went down to the changing-room. There, they expected to see Billy Bunter roll in, in a few minutes.

  But Billy Bunter did not roll in.

  So they went down to junior nets, expecting Bunter to follow. They were prepared to take quite a lot of trouble with Bunter, since he was, for once in his fat life, showing keenness for the summer game.

  But, as it happened, they did not have to take any trouble with Bunter. The fat junior did not follow them down to the nets.

  During the hour that they spent there, with other Remove fellows, no fat figure appeared in the offing.

  Billy Bunter’s sudden enthusiasm for the summer game seemed to have petered out as sudden as it had arisen! It had, in fact, lasted exactly as long as was required to get his lines done! While the Famous Five were at the nets, Billy Bunter was reposing his ample person in a comfortable armchair in the Rag, in a state of fat and lazy satisfaction. Which really was what they might have expected of William George Bunter.

  CHAPTER III

  JAM FOR BUNTER!

  “STAND and deliver!”

  “Oh, really, Cherry—!”

  “What have you got there?”

  “Nothing, old chap! Nothing at all! I say, you fellows, let a fellow pass. I’m in rather a hurry.”

  But the Famous Five, of the Remove, did not let Billy Bunter pass.

  They were coming upstairs, as Billy Bunter came down. They met on the middle landing. Five fellows, in a grinning row, blocked Billy Bunter’s way to the lower staircase. Bunter halted unwillingly—but he had to halt.

  That Billy Bunter had something hidden under his jacket was a fact that leaped to the eye. Bunter’s garments were tight. There was really hardly enough room in them for Bunter, His ample proportions filled them almost to bursting point. Any other fellow might have concealed something under his jacket without catching the casual eye. Not Bunter. On Bunter’s fat person there was a bulge—a very distinct bulge—a bulge that few could have failed to notice. Harry Wharton and Co. had noticed it at once. That was why Bob Cherry playfully called on the fat junior to stand and deliver.

  Bunter was clearly in a hurry. Bunter’s movements generally resembled those of a snail—a tired snail. But he had come pattering rapidly down the upper stairs, and he came across the middle landing at a run. Only for very urgent reasons could the fat Owl of the Remove have put on such speed. But hurried as he was, Bunter had to stop.

  “I say, you fellows, no larks!” gasped Bunter. “I— I’ve got to see Quelch. He’s waiting to see me. Let a chap pass.”

  “You’ve got to see Quelch?” repeated Harry Wharton.

  “Yes, old chap—he’s waiting—.”

  “How odd, we’ve just seen Quelch go out. You’ve missed him,” said the captain of the Remove, shaking his head.

  “Oh! Has Quelch gone out? I—I don’t mean Quelch! I—I mean Wingate,” stammered Bunter. “I’ve got to see Wingate! Let a chap pass—can’t keep a Sixth-form prefect waiting—captain of the school, too! I’ve got to get to Wingate’s study—.”

  “No good going to his study,” chuckled Frank Nugent. “Wingate’s on Big Side, playing cricket.”

  “Oh! Is he? I mean—I—I—I mean—I mean the Head! That’s what I—I meant to say. I’ve been specially sent for to Dr. Locke’s study. I say, you fellows, I shall get into a row if I keep the head-master waiting! You know old Locke doesn’t like to be kept waiting—lemme pass, will you?”

  And Billy Bunter made an effort to push through the row of juniors. Then he gave a startled yelp, as the bulge under his jacket slipped. He clutched wildly at the hidden article to save it, and crammed it back under his jacket— but not before the other fellows had seen that it was a jam-jar.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” roared Bob Cherry. “Are you taking the Head a pot of jam for his tea?”

  “Oh! Yes! No! I—I————.”

  “Whose is it?” asked Johnny Bull.

  “Mine!” roared Bunter indignantly. “Think I’ve got somebody else’s pot of jam? Not that this is a pot of jam I’ve got here, you know. It’s a—a bottle of ink.”

  “Smithy had jam in one of his gorgeous parcels today!” remarked Bob Cherry. “You fat brigand, that’s Smithy’s jam.”

  “Tain’t!” roared Bunter. “Think I’d touch Smithy’s jam? I never knew Smithy had jam—I never saw Gosling hand him the parcel, and never knew he had a parcel at all, and it certainly wasn’t in his study when I looked. Besides, I haven’t been to his study. Will you let a fellow pass? I’ve got to see Quelch—I mean Wingate—that is, the Head—they’re waiting—I mean, he’s waiting—I mean—.”

  “Hallo, hallo, hallo!” roared Bob Cherry, as another junior appeared on the lower staircase, coming up. “This way, Smithy, old man.”

  Herbert Vernon-Smith glanced up at the group on the middle landing.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Daylight raid!” answered Bob. “If you had a pot of jam in your study, you’d better cut along and see if it’s still there.”

  “What?” Smithy joined the group on the middle landing, and his eye went at once to the bulge under Bunter’s jacket. “You fat villain! Have you been bagging my jam?”

  “No!” gasped Bunter. “I haven’t got anything under my jacket, Smithy—I mean, it’s a bottle of ink. I’m taking it down to the Rag, to—to fill the inkpot. I say, you fellows, let a fellow pass.”

  “If you’ve bagged my plum jam—!”

  “I—I haven’t, old chap! This bottle of ink is apricot jam—I—I mean, this jar of apricot is ink bottle—I—I mean—.” Billy Bunter was getting a little mixed. “Look here, you cut along to your study, Smithy, and you’ll see your jar of jam on the table, just where you left it. You fellows go with him—!”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “I’m just taking this bottle of jam down to the Rag to fill Quelch—I—I mean, I’m taking this jar of rag down to Quelch to see the Head—. Ow! Leggo my neck, you beast!” howled Bunter, as the Bounder of Greyfriars grasped him. “I tell you I haven’t got your jam. I don’t believe you had any jam. There wasn’t any in your study when I looked, and I left it on the table, too. If you can’t take a fellow’s word—. Leggo!”

  Shake! shake! shake!

  Vernon-Smith had a sinewy arm. He shook Bunter, and shook him again and again, and the fat Owl sagged in his grasp, like a plump jelly.

  Shake! shake!

  “Ooooogh!” spluttered Bunter. “Leggo! I say, you fellows, make him leggo! I say, you make him leggo, and I’ll let you have some of the jam!”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  Shake! shake! shake!

  Smithy, grinning, put his beef into it. The fat Owl tottered in his grasp, gurgling for breath. There was a sudden bump, as the jar of jam slipped, at last, from under Bunter’s jacket, and rolled on the landing. Bunter’s plunder had been shaken out of him and was revealed, to all eyes, as a pot of plum jam.

  “Looks more like jam than ink to me!” rem
arked Nugent.

  “The jamfulness is terrific!” grinned Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. “The esteemed and execrable Bunter has been study-raiding.”

  “Ow! I haven’t!” gasped Bunter. “That’s my jam! It came from Bunter Court this morning! You leave my jam alone.”

  Herbert Vernon-Smith, releasing the fat Owl, stooped to pick up his pot of jam. Billy Bunter made a dive for it. There was a sudden crash, as two heads suddenly met. Vernon-Smith gave a yell of anguish, and sat down suddenly on the landing. Bunter reeled from the shock.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” shrieked the Famous Five.

  “Oh, scissors!” gasped the Bounder. He sat with his hand to his head, dizzy from the crash. For a moment or two, he was hors de combat.

  Billy Bunter did not lose that moment or two. His bullet head was harder than Smithy’s, apparently. Perhaps there was not much in it to damage. Bunter clutched up the disputed pot of jam, and jumped for the lower stairs. Harry Wharton and Co. were laughing too much to stop him. Bunter went down the staircase with leaps like a kangaroo.

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  Vernon-Smith staggered to his feet, his hand still to his head. His face was red with wrath.

  “By gum! I’ll burst him all over Greyfriars!” he gasped. And he rushed in pursuit of the fleeing fat Owl.

  “Hold on, Smithy!” gasped Harry Wharton. But the enraged Bounder did not heed. Bunter had reached the foot of the staircase, and Smithy shot down in pursuit. The Owl of the Remove cast one terrified blink back, and fled for his fat life. The look on Smithy’s face was enough for Bunter.

  “Oh, my hat!” gurgled Bob Cherry. “If they run into a beak or a pre., there will be a row.”

  Smithy, with his usual recklessness, was not thinking of masters or prefects. Neither was he bothering about the jam. He just wanted to get hold of Billy Bunter.

  Bunter, on the other hand, did not want to be got hold of. He had to get away from Smithy—and he remembered, as he careered away, that Wharton had mentioned that Quelch had gone out. Quelch’s study, therefore, was a safe retreat—even the reckless Bounder would not venture to pursue him into a master’s study. At a less hectic moment, the fat Owl would have thought twice, or three times, before he ventured into such dangerous precincts. But it was now a case of any port in a storm—and Billy Bunter flew for Quelch’s study like a homing pigeon.