Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... Page 2

  Smithy charged into Masters’ passage, just in time to hear Quelch’s study door slam ahead of him. Mr. Prout, the master of the Fifth Form, looked out of his study doorway, and fixed his eyes with grim disapproval on the breathless, crimson Bounder.

  “Well,” he rapped. “What do you want here, Vernon-Smith?”

  Smithy backed round the corner without replying to that question. Billy Bunter had found a safe refuge, and Vernon-Smith had to leave him to it. His only consolation was to resolve to burst William George Bunter all over Greyfriars School when he saw him again.

  CHAPTER IV

  AFTER THE FEAST—!

  MR. QUELCH stared, as if he could hardly believe his eyes. Indeed, at that moment, he hardly could.

  Quelch had gone out for a walk in the quad after class, as he often did. Harry Wharton and Co. had in fact seen their form-master go out, as Wharton had mentioned to Bunter. But he had come in again.

  It was very pleasant taking the air under the shady old branches of the ancient Greyfriars elms. It braced Quelch, after his labours in the Remove room with a numerous and slightly troublesome form. But on Quelch’s study table lay a pile of Form papers that had to be corrected, and Henry Samuel Quelch never forgot his duties. So, reluctantly but dutifully, Quelch at length retraced his steps to the House—and came to his study.

  Naturally, he did not expect to find that study occupied. Least of all would he have expected it to be occupied by a fat junior with a pot of jam. But that was how he found it. He opened the study door, and was about to enter, when he stopped dead, his eyes fixed on a fat figure in his armchair. Quelch’s eyes were very keen—often compared, in his form, to gimlets. But at that moment he really doubted their evidence.

  Billy Bunter did not, for the moment, see his form- master. Bunter was busy.

  Bunter had sought that safe refuge simply to escape from the wrathful Smithy. He had judged rightly— Smithy had not ventured to pursue him there. He was safe—till Quelch came in. Bunter was going to stay in that study as long as he possibly could: for the double purpose of keeping out of Smithy’s way, and giving Smithy time to cool down and get over his temper. When Quelch came in, he was going to account for his presence there by asking Quelch a history question, as if he had come to the study for that very purpose. That, Bunter sagely considered, would placate Quelch. Quelch, like all beaks, liked fellows to take an interest in their lessons: and he could not fail to be pleased if Bunter specially desired to know whether Magna Charta was signed in the reign of Edward the Confessor or Charles the Second!

  In the meantime, there was the jam!

  Sitting in Mr. Quelch’s armchair, Bunter opened that pot of jam. Unluckily he had no spoon. Bunter liked a tablespoon when dealing with jam. But on Quelch’s table lay an ivory paper-knife which answered the purpose fairly well. With that implement, Billy Bunter scooped out jam and conveyed it to a large mouth: and chunk after chunk of delicious plum jam followed the downward path. In those ecstatic moments Bunter forgot Smithy, and even forgot Quelch. It was a happy, sticky Bunter that cleaned out the jam-jar with the ivory paper-knife.

  After he bad finished, Bunter was going to wipe that paper-knife clean on Quelch’s blotting pad, and hide the empty jam-jar at the bottom of Quelch’s waste-paper basket—and then wait for Quelch, with his history-question all ready. That was the idea. It was rather unfortunate that Quelch came in before Bunter had quite finished the jam!

  There was still a spot of jam at the bottom of the jar, and it was not easy to extract it with a paper-knife. But difficulties were only made to be overcome. Bunter concentrated on that urgent task, blinking through his big spectacles into the jar resting on his fat knees, and scraping industriously. He was too absorbed to notice the faint sound of the door-handle turning. As Mr. Quelch stood at the open door, his eyes fixed on Bunter, the Owl of the Remove did not look up—he carried on with the important task in hand—and his little round eyes gleamed behind his big round spectacles, as quite a substantial spot of jam was gathered by industrious scraping.

  Mr. Quelch gazed at him.

  For a long, long moment, the Remove master stood quite still, gazing at that happy member of his form. He realised that his eyes were not deceiving him. Actually a boy of his form was seated in his armchair in his study, scraping out a jam-jar, with a sticky paper-knife, sticky fingers, sticky face, and a general aspect of stickiness. Quelch found his voice.

  “Bunter!”

  “Oh, crikey!”

  Bunter jumped. In fact, he bounded. He was out of the armchair with a speed that was marvellous, considering the weight he had to lift. The jam-jar rolled on the hearth-rug. The sticky paper-knife dropped on the carpet. Billy Bunter stood blinking at his form-master with his eyes almost popping with terror through his spectacles.

  “Bunter! What are you doing here?”

  “Oh! I—I—I was—was waiting for you, sir!” gasped Bunter. “I—I came to ask you a—a question, sir, about jam—I mean about history, sir—I—I forgot whether Magna Charta was signed by Smithy—I mean King Charles the Fourth, sir, or—or Henry the Tenth—.”

  “I find you eating—I should say devouring—I find you devouring jam, in my study!” said Mr. Quelch, in a deep rumbling voice. “Did you purloin that jam below stairs, Bunter? I have several times received complaints from Mrs. Kebble—.”

  “Oh! No, sir! I—I had it in a parcel from home, sir! Smithy got it this morning—I mean I got it this morning—.”

  “I think I understand Bunter! You have purloined that comestible from another Remove boy’s study, and that is why—!”

  “Oh, no, sir! It wasn’t Smithy’s!” stammered Bunter. “That was all a mistake, sir. If Smithy had any jam, it’s still in his study. I—I didn’t come here because Smithy was after me, sir—I—I came to ask you, sir, to tell me, if you’ll be so kind, whether Cagna Marta—I mean Magna Charta—was signed in the reign of George the Seventh or—or—or William the Eighth, sir.”

  “That will do, Bunter.”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir. C-c-can I go now, sir?”

  “You may not, Bunter.”

  “Oh, lor’!”

  “I hardly know to deal with you, Bunter,” said Mr. Quelch, with slow, grim thoughtfulness. “You are not only the idlest boy in my form. You are not only the most obtuse. You are the most untruthful. You are the most unscrupulous. You have been punished on several occasions for purloining food. Punishment appears to have no effect. You seem no better for even a severe caning.”

  “Oh, no, sir!” gasped Bunter. “Not at all, sir! Worse, I—I think, sir. I—I d-don’t think caning does me any good, sir.”

  “Once already this term, Bunter, you have been caned for taking a pie from the pantry—.”

  “That was all a mistake, sir!” groaned Bunter. “I—I never went down the kitchen stairs at all. Mrs. Kebble thought I’d gone down, sir, just because she saw me coming up—”

  “On that occasion, Bunter, I gave you three strokes with the cane. It has not caused you to mend your ways,” said Mr. Quelch. “I shall not give you three strokes now, Bunter.”

  “Oh! Good! I—I mean, thank you, sir, C-c-can I go now?”

  “I shall give you six—!”

  “Oh, crumbs!”

  Mr. Quelch picked up a cane from the study table. Billy Bunter eyed that proceeding with deep apprehension. Mr. Quelch pointed to a chair with the cane.

  “Bend over that chair, Bunter.”

  “I—I—I say, sir—!”

  “Bend over that chair!” rapped Mr. Quelch, in a voice like unto that of the Great Huge Bear.

  “Oh, crikey!”

  Billy Bunter, in the lowest spirits, bent over the chair.

  He gave an anticipatory wriggle as he waited for the descending cane. But he did not have to wait long.

  Swipe!

  “Yaroooooh!” roared Bunter.

  Swipe!

  “Oh! Oooooh!”

  Swipe! swipe! swipe!

 
“Yow-ow-whoooooooooop!”

  SWIPE! Mr. Quelch seemed to put extra beef in the last swipe. It fairly rang on Bunter’s tight trousers. It cracked like a rifle-shot! Louder still sounded the anguished yell of the hapless Owl.

  “Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”

  “Cease that ridiculous noise, Bunter,” snapped Mr. Quelch.

  “Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”

  “If you make another sound, Bunter, I shall cane you again!”

  Sudden silence!

  “Now leave my study,” said Mr. Quelch, “and I warn you, Bunter, to let this be a lesson to you. I warn you that you have very nearly exhausted my patience. Go!”

  Billy Bunter went.

  He suppressed his feelings till Quelch’s door closed on him. But as he went wriggling down the passage, his anguish found voice.

  “Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”

  “Oh! Here you are!” Herbert Vernon-Smith was waiting for him at the corner. “Now, you fat villain—!”

  “Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”

  The Bounder stared at him, dropped the foot he bad lifted, and laughed.

  “You look as if you’d had enough!” he remarked.

  “Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow !”

  Bunter certainly looked as if he had had enough. He felt as if he bad had too much! And the Bounder kindly let it go at that, and Billy Bunter wriggled on his way Un-kicked.

  CHAPTER V

  BY WHOSE HAND?

  “HE, he, he!”

  “Hallo, hallo, hallo! What’s the joke, old fat man?” Billy Bunter did not answer that question. But he grinned—a grin so wide, that it extended from one of Bunter’s fat ears to the other. A good many eyes turned on the Owl of the Remove. Bunter, evidently, was in possession of a joke—a great joke—a joke that made him quite hilarious.

  It was morning—and the Remove had been out in break. Now they were gathering at the form-room door for third school. Billy Bunter, as a rule, was among the last to arrive: punctuality had never been one of Bunter’s weaknesses. On this occasion, he was among the first.

  And he was chuckling and grinning. Something was stirring him to merriment, though the other fellows were quite in the dark as to what it was.

  “The jokefulness seems to be terrific,” remarked Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. “What have you been up to, my esteemed and fatheaded Bunter?”

  “Oh! Nothing!” answered Bunter. “It wasn’t me.”

  “What wasn’t you?” asked Johnny Bull.

  “Oh! Nothing! Quelch may be going to get a surprise —or he may not! I don’t know anything about it, of course,” said Bunter, astutely. “I’ve been standing here a long time—practically all through break. So if any fellow got in at the form-room window, it couldn’t have been me, could it?”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “You howling ass,” said Peter Todd. “What did you get in at the form-room window for?”

  “I’ve just told you I didn’t,” snapped Bunter. “Look here, Toddy don’t you get making out that I’ve been anywhere near the form-room window. If Quelch heard, he might think that it was me.”

  “That what was you?” asked Harry Wharton.

  “Oh! Nothing!”

  “You’ve been playing some potty trick in the form-room?” asked Bob Cherry.

  “No!” hooted Bunter. “I haven’t been in the form-room. So far as I know, the window wasn’t left open, and if it was, I never climbed in.”

  “You jolly well couldn’t,” said Skinner. “Too much to lift.”

  “Of course I couldn’t, without a bunk up,” agreed Bunter. “And Dabney of the Fourth never gave me a bunk up, either.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “What has that frumptious fathead been up to?” asked Frank Nugent. “Didn’t Quelch give you enough in his study yesterday? Asking for more?”

  “I haven’t been up to anything. If Quelch gives a fellow six, Quelch must expect to hear what a fellow thinks of him,” said Bunter. “I couldn’t sit down to prep last evening. But I haven’t done anything, of course. If Quelch gets a surprise when he goes into the form-room, I don’t know anything about it. How could I, when I haven’t been in the form-room in break?”

  “It was something with chalk in it,” said Vernon-Smith with a chuckle.

  Bunter jumped.

  “Chalk! How do you know, you beast? I haven’t touched any chalk. Don’t you get saying I’ve had any chalk—!

  “Don’t you want Quelch to know you’ve been handling chalk?” chuckled the Bounder.

  “No fear! He might think I’d chalked on the blackboard! You know what a suspicious beast he is—.”

  “Then you’d better wipe the clues off your waistcoat, old fat bean.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the juniors, as Billy Bunter cast a startled blink downward at his extensive and well-filled waistcoat. On that garment were several smudges of chalk—which leaped to all eyes excepting Bunter’s.

  “Oh!” gasped Bunter. “I—I hadn’t noticed that! I say, lend me your handkerchief, Wharton—I’d better rub that off.”

  “Eh! Can’t you use your own hanky?” asked Harry.

  “Well, I don’t want to make my hanky all chalky. Lend me yours, quick, old chap. Quelch may be coming any minute. Look here, will you lend me your hanky or not, Wharton?”

  “Not!” answered the captain of the Remove, laughing.

  “Beast! Lend me your hanky, Toddy.”

  “I’ll watch it!” said Peter Todd.

  “Beast!”

  Billy Bunter extracted his own handkerchief from his pocket, and hurriedly wiped away the traces of chalk. The chalky handkerchief was jammed back into his pocket. He cast an anxious blink along the corridor: but Quelch was not yet in sight, and the fat Owl breathed more freely. The tell-tale clues were gone.

  “So you’ve been chalking something on the blackboard in the form-room, you fat ass?” asked Hazeldene.

  “Nothing of the kind, Hazel. Somebody may have,” said Bunter. “After all, lots of fellows think Quelch a beast, don’t they? Somebody may have chalked it on the blackboard, for all I know. He, he, he! It wasn’t me. Of course, I trust you fellows—I know you wouldn’t give a man away. But you can’t be too careful, with Quelch. So I never did it, see?”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “You utter ass,” said Harry Wharton. “If you’ve chalked anything of that kind on the blackboard, Quelch will go off at the deep end.”

  “He, he, he! Let him! He won’t know who did it!” chuckled Bunter. “I never signed my name to it, you know! He, he! Besides, I never did it! I say, you fellows, fancy Quelch’s face when he sees it on the blackboard. He will know what the Remove thinks of him, what?” Bunter chuckled again. “I say, he will be wild! He will guess it was a Remove man—but he won’t know which man it was. I can tell you fellows, I’m fed up with Quelch! What do you think he said to me in his study yesterday? He said I was untruthful!”

  “Did he?” gasped Bob Cherry. “Now what could have put that idea into his head?”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “You can cackle,” said Bunter, warmly. “I call it insulting. I know you fellows ain’t so particular as I am in things like that, but did you ever know me tell a lie? I ask you!”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Hallo, hallo, hallo! Here comes Henry!” murmured Bob.

  Mr. Quelch appeared at the corner of the corridor. He gave the assembled juniors a sharp glance, and Bob wondered, for a dismayed moment, whether his keen ears had caught the word “Henry”. However, the Remove master rustled up the passage to the door on the form-room, and unlocked the same to admit his form. The Remove marched in and took their places. Mr. Quelch went to his high desk.

  The blackboard, which had been used in second school, stood on its easel facing the form. What was chalked on it was, therefore, visible to all the Remove, but not, for the moment, to their form-master.

  All eyes turned on the blackboard. Then there was a sudden gust of laughter. The Removites really could not help it. Afte
r what Bunter had said, they expected to see something chalked on the blackboard which was calculated to make Quelch “wild”, What they saw was an inscription in large capital letters:

  QUELCH IS A BEEST!

  “Ha, ha, ha!” woke the echoes of the form-room. Billy Bunter grinned—a wide grin. Bunter was quite pleased by this tribute. All the Remove were laughing—that inscription on the blackboard seemed to have taken them by storm. But Quelch wouldn’t laugh when he saw it—Quelch would be in a fearful rage—all the more because there was no clue to the writer!

  “Ha, ha, ha!” roared the Remove.

  “He, he, he!” cachinnated Bunter.

  Mr. Quelch stared at his form, with knitting brows. That outburst of merriment took him by surprise, and did not please him.

  “Silence!” he thundered. “What is the meaning of this? What—?” He realised at once that the blackboard was the cynosure of all eyes, and guessed that there must be something unusual on it. He whisked round the blackboard to see what had caused that burst of hilarity.

  The laughter died away quite suddenly. Quelch’s expression, as he looked at the chalked words on the blackboard, did not encourage merriment. For a moment, Mr. Quelch stared at it: then he turned to his class.

  “Bunter!” His eyes fixed on the Owl of the Remove.

  “Oh, crikey!” gasped Bunter, in alarm.

  Why Quelch picked on him was an absolute mystery to the Owl of the Remove. There was nothing, so far as Bunter knew, to give the remotest clue to the writer of that inscription. He had not expected for a moment that the gimlet-eyes would fix on him. But they did.

  “Bunter! You have done this!”

  “I—I wouldn’t, sir! I—I don’t think you’re a beast, sir, like the other fellows—.”

  “Bunter!” thundered Mr. Quelch. “You wrote this! It was you, Bunter, who chalked this—this unexampled impertinence on the blackboard! Bunter, you entered the form-room surreptitiously during break—by the window—.”