Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... Page 3

  “Oh, lor’! I—I never knew you saw me, sir!” groaned Bunter. “I—I thought you were in your study—oh, scissors!”

  “I did not see you, Bunter.”

  “Oh! Then—then I didn’t do it, sir! I—I was in the tuck-shop at the time—Mrs. Mimble was serving me with a jam-tart, sir, at the very minute I was chalking on the blackboard—I mean when I—I wasn’t chalking on the blackboard—.”

  “I shall not cane you again, Bunter,” said Mr. Quelch, breathing hard. “You will be detained for the half-holiday this afternoon. I shall set you a detention task, and you will remain in the form-room until you have finished it—.”

  “But—but I never—!”

  “Silence!” almost roared Mr. Quelch.

  Billy Bunter quaked into silence. Mr. Quelch took a duster and wiped the blackboard. Third lesson began in the Remove in rather an electric atmosphere. Billy Bunter sat with a fat face of woe. He was booked for the afternoon—and he knew, from experience, what Quelch’s detention tasks were like! Why Quelch had picked on him, he did not know. It seemed like magic to Bunter. It was one more proof that Quelch was a “beest”.

  CHAPTER VI

  NOT WANTED!

  “HARRY, old chap—!”

  Harry Wharton shook his head.

  “Sorry!” he said.

  “Eh!” Billy Bunter blinked at the captain of the Remove, in the doorway of the changing-room, in surprise. “What are you sorry about?”

  “Shortage of cash,” explained Wharton. “Nothing doing! Try Smithy.”

  “If you think I want to borrow anything from you, Wharton—!” said William George Bunter, with a great deal of dignity.

  “Don’t you?”

  “No!” roared Bunter. “I don’t!”

  “Then why did you call me old chap?’ inquired the captain of the Remove.

  “Beast! I—I mean, dear old fellow—!” said Bunter, hastily.

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “I say, I’m booked for this afternoon,” said Bunter, dismally. “I’ve got to go into the form-room at two, and Quelch is going to give me a paper to do—I shouldn’t wonder if it’s deponent verbs—it would be like him! And you fellows are going to play cricket! Now look here, Harry, old chap, we’ve always been pals, haven’t we?”

  “Have we?” asked Harry Wharton, in surprise. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “Oh, really, Wharton! Who was it stood by you, and helped you through, and all that, when you were a new fellow here?” demanded Bunter.

  “Nugent!” answered Harry, laughing.

  “You don’t remember what I did for you?” asked Bunter, sarcastically.

  “Yes, I do. You borrowed half-a-crown the first day. And that reminds me that you’ve never squared. What about it?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk rot,” said Bunter, peevishly. “After all I’ve done for you, you might do a little thing for me. I want to play cricket this afternoon. You know how keen I am on the game—.”

  “Oh, quite!” agreed Harry. “Very keen, when you want other fellows to do your lines. Not at other times.”

  “Well, I’m frightfully keen now,” declared Bunter. “I suppose you’ve made up the eleven to play the Fourth this afternoon?”

  “Sort of,” said Harry, laughing. “As we’re due on Little Side in ten minutes, I shouldn’t be likely to leave it very much later.”

  “Well it’s not too late to make a change in the team!” suggested Bunter. “You’re not much of a judge of a man’s form, old fellow, and I’m blessed if I know why the fellows made you skipper: but you’ve got sense enough to leave out a dud and put in a better man if you can get one, what?”

  “Oh, quite. Where’s the better man?”

  “Here! Now, if you go to Quelch and explain that you simply can’t leave me out, because it’s a pretty tough match, Quelch will let me off detention, see? I specially want to go down to Friardale this afternoon—I mean, I specially want to play cricket—being awfully keen on the game, you know. I don’t want to go down to Friardale because Uncle Clegg’s got jolly good ices—nothing of the kind. I’m fearfully keen on cricket. Easy enough to make room for me in the team—you can leave out Cherry— he’s not much good.”

  “Hallo, hallo, hallo! Who’s not much good?” roared Bob Cherry.

  “You, old chap! Look at the way you bat!” argued Bunter. “Or there’s Toddy—no good at all, if you don’t mind my mentioning it, Toddy.”

  Peter Todd gave his fat study-mate an expressive look, but no other reply.

  “Or there’s Squiff—or Browney—or Inky—or Nugent—or Bull—or Smithy,” went on Bunter. “What about dropping Smithy? I daresay he’d rather hike along to the Cross Keys for a smoke, than play cricket, if you come to that. Wouldn’t you, Smithy?”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “The fact is, I don’t care whom you leave out, so long as you put me in, Harry, old chap. That’s the important point. Quelch will be sure to let me off, if you tell him I’m wanted—he wouldn’t spoil a Form game by detaining the best cricketer in the Remove—!”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the Remove cricketers.

  “Well, you fellows know how I play,” argued Bunter. “There’s a lot of jealousy in cricket, and I never have a show—but facts are facts, all the same. If Wharton knew a man’s form, he would pick me out for the Highcliffe match when it comes off—not that I expect him to!” added Bunter, bitterly. “As I said, I’m used to jealousy. But it’s really important this afternoon. Wharton, because I want to go down to Uncle Clegg’s—I mean to Little Side. Look here, old chap, leave out any man you like,” said Bunter, in a burst of generosity. “Only put me in, see?”

  “I see,” assented the captain of the Remove, “and now, if you’ve finished your funny turn, roll away, old barrel.”

  “You won’t play me?” demanded Bunter.

  “Not at cricket, old fat bean. When we play the Fourth at marbles or hop-scotch, I’ll think of you.”

  “Beast! I mean, look here, dear old fellow, I’ve got to get off detention. Just go to Quelch and tell him that I’m wanted in the game this afternoon—!”

  “But you’re not wanted.”

  “Oh, really, Wharton! I wish you’d keep to the point,” said Bunter, peevishly. “The point is, to get me off detention. See? Quelch won’t notice that I’m not in the game—why should he? If he did, you could tell him I’ve been taken suddenly ill, see? How’s that?”

  “Out!” said Wharton.

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Beast!” roared Bunter. “I tell you, I don’t want detention this afternoon—I’d rather play cricket than do deponent verbs—!”

  “What a jolly good reason for picking a man for a match!” remarked Bob Cherry.

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Now you’ve finished, Bunter—!”

  “I haven’t finished—!”

  “Yes, you have! Give him a prod with your bat, Johnny.”

  “Yoo-hooop!” roared Bunter, as Johnny Bull’s bat established contact, and he departed from the doorway in haste.

  There was no cricket for Bunter that afternoon—even though he did indubitably prefer cricket to deponent verbs!

  The fat junior rolled away in an indignant and morose frame of mind. It was true that Bunter was thinking more of the ices at Uncle Clegg’s tuck-shop in the village of Friardale, than of the great summer game. He had borrowed half-a-crown from Lord Mauleverer specially to be expended on those ices. It was a moral impossibility to sit in the form-room grinding at a detention task, with Mauly’s half-crown burning a hole in his pocket, and those delicious ices waiting for him at Friardale,

  Billy Bunter suddenly made up his fat mind, and rolled away towards the gates. He resolved to chance it with Quelch. Two o’clock was striking from the clock-tower, at which hour he was due for detention: so there was no time to waste. Bunter rolled away from the House: and, like Iser in the poem, he rolled rapidly.

  He eyed Gosling uneasily, as the a
ncient porter of Greyfriars, in the doorway of his lodge, glanced at him.

  If Gosling knew that he was under detention, Gosling was quite capable of stopping him at the gate—that was the sort of brute Gosling was!”

  But Gosling, apparently, did not know: at any rate, Billy Bunter passed under his ancient eyes unchallenged. He reached the old arched stone gateway, where the gates stood wide open on a half-holiday, And there, for a moment, Billy Bunter hesitated—and halted.

  Billy Bunter was not, perhaps, very bright. But he was bright enough to realise that “chancing it” with Quelch was a risky business. He could explain to Quelch that he had forgotten all about his detention—forgotten it so utterly that his mind was a perfect blank on the subject. But he had a deep misgiving that Quelch would not believe him, Often and often had Quelch doubted Bunter’s word, and Bunter felt that he could not expect any improvement in Quelch in that respect.

  If he “cut” detention, there would be a row. Quelch, as usual, would be a beast. And Billy Bunter, with a lingering glimmer of common-sense, hesitated to draw once more the vials of wrath upon his fat head.

  He hesitated—but it is well said that he who hesitates is lost. On the one hand, were delicious ices at Uncle Clegg’s—on the other, a dismal detention task with deponent verbs in it very likely. Billy Bunter rolled out of gates, and took the lane to Friardale.

  And as Bunter rolled out of gates, Henry Samuel Quelch looked out of the big window in the form-room corridor. Quelch, who was as regular as clockwork, had arrived at the door of the Remove form-room as two o’clock struck—with a detention paper in his hand, and a grim expression on his face. He was ready to let Bunter into the form-room, and see him started on that detention paper—which, as the fat Owl dreaded, had deponent verbs in it! Quelch was ready: but Bunter, like Ethelred of old, was unready!

  Bunter was not to be seen—till Quelch looked from the window, expecting to see him loitering on his way to the House—and even Quelch did not expect a fellow to be keen and eager for detention on a summer’s afternoon.

  But he did not see Bunter loitering—he beheld, in the distance, an unmistakable fat figure rolling out of the gates. Quelch stared at that fast figure as it disappeared. His grim face grew grimmer, and his gimlet-eyes gleamed. Bunter, due for detention, was walking out of the school—as if free as a bird that afternoon.

  “Upon my word!” breathed Mr. Quelch.

  Two or three minutes later, Henry Samuel Quelch, complete with hat and walking-stick, was striding down to the gates. Billy Bunter’s prospect of ices at Uncle Clegg’s that afternoon was after all, doubtful!

  CHAPTER VII

  BUNTER MEETS NOSEY JENKINS!

  “’OLD on, you!”

  Billy Bunter gave quite a jump at that command.

  He was hurrying down Friardale Lane, as fast as his little fat legs could carry him. He had good reasons for haste. Ahead of him were the ices at Uncle Clegg’s—behind him were Quelch and detention. Quelch must have missed him by that time, and would be looking for him—very likely asking the prefects to look for him. So long as he was near Greyfriars, Bunter was in dread of a calling voice astern—perhaps Quelch’s, or perhaps Wingate’s or Loder’s or Gwynne’s. So, still following the energetic example of the river Iser, he rolled rapidly.

  Danger behind Bunter dreaded—but danger ahead never occurred to him—till he heard that sharp, unpleasant voice. He was nearly half-way to the village, in a spot where the overhanging branches of the trees on either side of the lane almost met overhead—a dusky, shady, solitary spot. In the dusk of the branches Bunter did not notice a man who was leaning against a gnarled tree-trunk, chewing the stem of an empty black pipe.

  But the man noticed Bunter, eyed him with sharp, red-rimmed eyes as he came up and, as he drew abreast, Stepped into his path, and bade him “’old on.”

  “Oh!” gasped Bunter, startled.

  He held on—he could not continue on his way without walking over the man. And the man looked rather alarming. He was not well-dressed—he wore a ragged coat too large for him, shabby trousers too small for him, a battered bowler that only a very impecunious tramp would have picked up off a rubbish-heap, and a blue spotted neck cloth. His chin was adorned by a three-days beard: and the rest of his countenance looked seriously in need of a wash. He had little red-rimmed eyes, with an unpleasant threatening glint in them, and his nose had a queer twist sideways as if it had had a hard knock at some time from a very vigorous fist, and had never been able to get its bearings since.

  Altogether, he looked a very unpleasant customer, and rather alarming to meet in a lonely, shady spot.

  Billy Bunter blinked at him, and backed away a pace. The man with the twisted face followed him up.

  “’Old on!” he repeated. He had a short, thick stick under one arm, and he let it slip down into his hand, and, to Bunter’s dismay and terror, gave it a flourish in the air. “’Old on, you fat covey! You ’ear me?”

  “Oh! Yes!” gasped Bunter. “I—I say, I—I’m in rather a hurry—.”

  “So’m I,” answered the man with the twisted nose. “’And it over.”

  “Eh! Hand what over?” asked Bunter.

  “All you’ve got in your pockets—and sharp!” snapped the tramp, with another flourish of the stick.

  Billy Bunter blinked at him in horror. It was borne in upon his fat mind that this ugly customer was a footpad, taking advantage of that chance meeting in a solitary spot screened from general observation.

  “I—I—I say, I—I haven’t any money!” stammered Bunter. “I—I’ve been disappointed about a postal-order, and—and—Yaroooh!”

  The vagrant cast a swift glance up and down the lane. Solitary as it was, someone might have come along from either direction at any moment. The winding lane was full of turns, and someone might have been within thirty yards, for all Nosey Jenkins knew. He had no time to waste on Bunter. He closed in on the fat schoolboy, and grasped a fat shoulder with his left hand, flourishing the cudgel with his right, Bunter uttering a startled yelp as he was seized.

  “Now, then, sharp’s the word!” he snarled. “If you don’t want your silly ’ead cracked, ’and it over.”

  “I—I—I say, I—I—Yooo-hooop!” roared Bunter, as Nosey Jenkins gave him a smart tap on his fat head with the cudgel, as a warning of what was to come if he did not “’and it over”. “Ow! Leggo! Help! Yaroooh!”

  The next moment Bunter was sprawling on his back in the dust, and Nosey Jenkins, with his stick under his arm again, was groping through his pockets.

  “Oooooooogh!” spluttered the fat Owl. “Ow! Oh! Help!”

  “’Old your row, will you?” snapped Nosey Jenkins, in so ferocious a tone that Bunter gasped into silence.

  Thievish hands ran through his pockets as he sprawled dizzily in the dust.

  Perhaps Mr. Jenkins expected a Greyfriars fellow to be liberally supplied with cash. No doubt he would have been richly rewarded for his trouble had his victim been Herbert Vernon-Smith or Lord Mauleverer or Monty Newland. But if he expected to make a good thing out of Billy Bunter, he was disappointed. Billy Bunter’s financial resources were limited to Mauly’s half-crown—for which it was really hardly worth Mr. Jenkins’ while to risk three months in the “stone jug”. Having found, and annexed, Mauly’s half-crown, Nosey proceeded through Bunter’s other pockets, in the hope of unearthing further plunder—a delusive hope. And as he groped and searched, a tall, angular figure came rapidly round a turn of the winding lane from the direction of Greyfriars School.

  Mr. Quelch’s long legs were going strong.

  Had not Bunter put on unaccustomed speed his form-master certainly would have overtaken him much nearer the school. Quelch covered the ground fast—and his expressive face grew grimmer and grimmer as he did so. He expected to sight a fat back at every wind of the lane—and now, suddenly he sighted Bunter, in rather unexpected circumstances—sprawling and spluttering in the dust, with a tough-looking tramp bending ov
er him and going through his pockets!

  Mr. Quelch gave that scene one startled look—then his rapid walk broke into a more rapid run. He was on the scene in a twinkling.

  Nosey Jenkins, as he heard a rapid patter of footsteps, jumped up from Bunter, and grasped his cudgel, glaring round. As he did so, Mr. Quelch’s Walking-stick came into play.

  Crack!

  It was a long, thick, heavy walking-stick, and it was wielded in a very sinewy hand. It cracked on Mr. Jenkins’ battered bowler like a rifle-shot. That hat, already almost a ruin, became a complete wreck. What remained of it was crushed on Nosey Jenkins’ bullet head, and that bullet head rang and sang from the smite of the walking-stick. The yell that came from Nosey woke all the echoes of Friardale Lane and the fields and meadows adjoining.

  “You scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Quelch.

  “Strike me pink!” gasped Nosey, jumping back from another swipe of the walking-stick. “Oh, ’oly smoke! Oooooh!”

  Mr. Quelch followed him up, still swiping. Nosey grasped his cudgel, but a swipe across his arm caused him to drop it, with a howl of anguish. Another swipe landed on his ear—another on his already damaged head.

  It was too much for Nosey! He fairly turned tail and ran for it, having had enough. Mr. Quelch, perhaps not realising that Nosey had had enough, rushed after him, still swiping with the walking-stick twice and thrice it raised clouds of dust from Nosey’s tattered coat, before that hapless footpad fled for his life.

  Then Mr. Quelch, with an angry sniff, turned back to Bunter.

  That fat youth was sitting up dizzily in the dust, blinking at his form-master.

  “Oh, crikey!” gasped Bunter.

  Nosey had terrified the Owl of the Remove. But his form-master seemed to terrify him still more. As he saw the expression on Quelch’s face, the fat Owl would almost have preferred Nosey, of the two. He tottered to his feet, eyeing the Remove master with deep apprehension.

  “Bunter!” Quelch’s voice was like suppressed thunder, “I—I forgot—!” began Bunter. “If—if you please, sir “I—I forgot—.”

  “Return to the school this instant, Bunter.”