Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (10 page)

CHAPTER XIX

REPORT OF A RAID!

“THIS
is
a jolly serious matter, you fellows.” 
“What?”
“Which?”
Bob Cherry spoke with such seriousness, indeed solemnity, that his friends all
stared at him, in surprise.
Most of the Remove fellows in the Rag were rather hilarious. The episode with
Coker of the Fifth had been pleasurably exciting—and Prout’s little error, in
supposing that the great Horace had been engaged in “horse-play” with a mob of
juniors, considerably added to their gaiety. But Bob’s ruddy face was knitted
in a deeply thoughtful frown.
“Give it a name, old bean,” said Nugent. “What’s the row?”
“Well, it looks to me like a matter for the police,” said Bob.
“Wha-a-at?”
“Well, look at it!” argued Bob. “Coker’s hamper has been raided. Nobody at
Greyfriars would snaffle Coker’s prog excepting Bunter—.”
“Oh, really, Cherry—.”  
“And Bunter says he didn’t,” continued Bob. “Well, as Bunter didn’t—.”
“He did, you ass!” said Johnny Bull.
“Oh, really, Bull! If you can’t take a fellow’s word, Bob can, can’t you, old chap?
I never touched it—!”
“You hear that, you men?” said Bob. “Bunter never touched it. He says so, and
we all know how truthful he is.”
“I should jolly well think so!” said Bunter, warmly. “Quelch makes out that I’m
untruthful—he actually put it in my last report. But fellows in my own form
ought to know me better, I think.”
“What on earth are you getting at, Bob?” asked the captain of the Remove,
puzzled. “We all know that Bunter snooped Coker’s tuck—.”
“But he says he didn’t—!”
“That’s proof that he did!” remarked Skinner.
“Well, we’re bound to take a man’s word,” said Bob. “It boils down to
this—Bunter says he didn’t, and we know jolly well that no other Greyfriars man
did. So it can’t be what the police call an inside job!”
“What the thump—!”
“It’s a clear case of daylight burglary—one of those daylight raids we read
about in the newspapers,” said Bob, “and that’s jolly serious. If a daylight
burglar can push into the school and snoop a hamper, goodness knows what he may
do next. He might snaffle Bunter’s gold watch—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Or walk off with the blackboard in the form-room, or Quelch’s ‘History of
Greyfriars,’ or the Head’s top hat,” said Bob. “You never know! It’s plain that
he never left a ingle clue, as Coker thinks it was Bunter—.”
“It was Bunter!” yelled Johnny.
“Beast!
“Well, Bunter denies it, and we’re bound to take his word, knowing him as we
do. And if it wasn’t Bunter, it was one of those daylight raiders, that’s
perfectly clear. And my idea is that it ought to be reported at the
police-station without delay, so that they can get on the villain’s track.”  
“Oh!” gasped Billy Bunter.
He gave Bob Cherry a rather uncertain blink.
Bunter, certainly, would have been glad for the raid on Coker’s study to be put
down to a daylight burglar, or any other sample of the underworld, rather than
have had his own name connected with the occurrence. Bunter had his report to
think of! But the idea of passing the news on to the police-station gave the
fat Owl a cold feeling down his spine. Bunter did not want a police-constable
of Greyfriars looking for that daylight raider. He was rather afraid that the
raider might be found!
“Is that a joke?” asked Johnny Bull.
“It’s not a joking matter,” said Bob. “It’s jolly serious, as I’ve said. What
do you fellows think? Quelch is out, and we can’t wait for him to come in—with
a daylight raider getting away with the loot in broad daylight. I could cut
into his study and ring up the police-station, and give them particulars—.”
“I—I say—!” gasped Bunter. “I—I wouldn’t do that—!”
He blinked round uneasily at the juniors. Many faces had become grave now. Bob
Cherry, evidently, had made an impression. Bunter’s fat brain was not quick on
the uptake: and it did not occur to him that the fellows had caught on, by this
time, to the fact that Bob was leg-pulling, and were playing up.
“Well, the way you put it, it does seem jolly serious, Bob,” said Harry
Wharton, thoughtfully. “Might lose anything, with a daylight raider about.”
“After all, Bunter says he never did it,” remarked Nugent.
“And nobody else here did!” said Johnny Bull, shaking his head.
“Well, I hadn’t thought of it like that,” said Vernon-Smith, “but the way
Cherry puts it, it’s a pretty clear case of a daylight raid.”
“The clearfulness is terrific.”
“Yaas, begad.” remarked Lord Mauleverer, from the depths of an armchair. “Jolly
serious business, you fellows.”
“Coker will be getting after Bunter again,” said Peter Todd. “Tough luck on
Bunter, if he never did it.”
“Well, what do you think?” asked Bob. “I can get Quelch’s phone—and the sooner
they know at the police-station, the better—.”
“I—I say, you fellows—!”
“Better lose no time!” said Harry Wharton, decidedly. “They may be able to get
the man, if they’re quick.”
“Leave it to me, then,” said Bob, and he walked out of the Rag.
Billy Bunter blinked round at serious faces through his big spectacles. He was
deeply alarmed. At the same time, he could not quite believe that Bob was in
earnest. Tuck had been missing at Greyfriars before—in fact, ever since Billy
Bunter had honoured the old school with his distinguished presence, there had
been continually recurring cases of missing tuck. But nobody had ever thought
before of calling in a policeman!
“I—I say, you fellows, I—I know it’s only a j-j-joke!” gasped Bunter. “I—I
jolly well know that Bob hasn’t gone to Quelch’s study.”
“A daylight raid’s no joke,” said Squiff, shaking his head. “The sooner they
get the villain the better.”
“Yes, rather!”
“The ratherfulness is terrific.”
“Beasts!” hissed Bunter. “I—I jolly well know Cherry ain’t going to phone the
police-station. I jolly well know he’s only pulling my leg.”
“Beast!
Billy Bunter rolled out of the Rag. He did not believe that Bob was going to
phone the police-station. But he was very anxious to make sure. He rolled away
with a fat worried brow: and as soon as he had departed, serious looks also
departed from the Rag, and every face there wore a grin.
The fat junior rolled hurriedly away to Masters’ passage. The door of Quelch’s
study was partly open. He blinked in, and his fat heart jumped, as he saw Bob
Cherry standing at the telephone near the window.
“I—I say, Bob—!” he gasped.
 “Robert Cherry speaking from Greyfriars School,” said Bob, into the
transmitter. “It’s about a daylight burglary here.”
“Oh, crikey!” gasped Bunter.
He rolled into the study. It did not occur to his powerful brain that Bob had
not dialled, and that there was, in consequence, nobody at the other end to
take a call! Bob’s voice was audible to Bunter—but to nobody else in the wide
world—but the fat Owl remained unaware of that little circumstance.
“I—I say, Bob, old chap—!”
“Please send a constable along,” went on Bob, unheeding. “It’s a clear case of
a daylight raid—the contents of a hamper missing from a Fifth-form study—”
“Stop it, you beast!” gasped Bunter. “I—I say, if—if they send a bobby, he may
think it was me, just like that beast Coker, you know. I—I say, ring off, old
chap, and—and I’ll let you have some of the apples—.”
Bunter grabbed at Bob’s arm, to drag him away from the telephone, in dire
alarm. Bob gave him a shove, and there was a bump, as Bunter sat down on Mr.
Quelch’s carpet.
“Oooogh!” gurgled Bunter.
“Our form-master is out,” went on Bob, “but he will be back by the time a
constable gets here. We’re all rather alarmed at a daylight raider getting into
the school like this—.”
Bunter scrambled up.
“Will you stoppit, you beast?” he howled. “There wasn’t any daylight raider,
and if a bobby comes here, he may think—.”
“That’s good,” went on Bob. “We’ll expect the constable, then. The sooner the
better, of course, as the villain may not have got very far yet with the loot.
It’s only recently been discovered—yarooooh!” Bob broke off with a sudden roar.
Bunter was desperate. He was going to stop that telephone call somehow. He
grabbed a cushion from Mr. Quelch’s armchair, and swiped.
The cushion landed on Bob’s ear, and he staggered away from the telephone,
leaving the receiver hanging, and crashed into Mr. Quelch’s writing-table. The
table rocked, and there was a rustling of papers, and the inkpot shot off,
crashing into the fender.
“Oh! Ow!” roared Bob.
He scrambled up, and made a jump for Bunter.
Bunter backed promptly into the doorway.
“Keep off, you beast!” he gasped. “If you kick up a row here, you’ll have all
the beaks after us—.”
“You fat foozling frump.” Bob paused, and rubbed his ear. “Look what you’ve
done—Quelchy’s inkpot upset in the grate—.”
“Blow Quelchy’s inkpot! You’re jolly well not going to get a bobby here,” hissed
Bunter. “Let that telephone alone, you beast.”
Bob picked up the hanging receiver, but it was only to ‘replace it on the
hooks. He picked up the inkpot from the fender, and replaced it on the inkstand
on the table. The ink had to remain where it was, in a large and spreading
pool—that could not be helped.
“Look here, you beast—I mean, look here, old chap—.”
“Better cut,” said Bob. “Some of the beaks may have heard that row.” And he cut
down the passage, and round the corner.
“Beast!”
Bunter rolled after him. He did not want to be caught there by any “beak” who
might have heard the crash of  the inkpot. But he was deeply alarmed about that
telephone-call.
“I say, Bob, old chap—.” He grabbed Bob’s sleeve. say, do you think they—they
will send a
bobby—?”
“You heard what I said,” answered Bob. He jerked his sleeve away, and walked
back to the Rag, with a worried and alarmed fat Owl rolling after him.
A crowd of grinning faces were turned towards Bob as he went into the Rag.
“Phoned?” asked Nugent, laughing, as Bob shut the door.
 “Yes, rather! Bunter heard what I said into the phone. He seemed a bit
alarmed—I don’t know why if he didn’t raid Coker’s hamper—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“But you didn’t really speak into the phone?” exclaimed Johnny Bull, staring.
“I jolly well did! Only I didn’t dial first!” explained Bob, “so nobody can
have heard what I said, so far as I know.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Only Bunter,” said Bob, cheerily. “He heard me. I can’t make out why he didn’t
want me to phone—unless he really had Coker’s tuck—.”
“Does even that fat chump believe that a bobby would come here about missing
tuck?” said Skinner, chuckling. “What a brain!”
“The brainfulness is terrific.”
“It will be a lesson to the fat villain,” said Bob. “It’s about time he had a
lesson about snooping tuck. He can wait for that bobby to come—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I daresay it will dawn on him later that the bobby isn’t coming. Perhaps by
bedtime—!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared the juniors.
The door of the Rag opened again, and Billy Bunter rolled in. He blinked round
at grinning faces through his big spectacles.
“I—I say, you fellows, d-d-do you think they’ll really send a bobby here?” he
asked, dismally.
“Well, it’s up to the police to nail a daylight raider,” answered Harry
Wharton. “Glad of the chance, I expect.”
“But there wasn’t any daylight raider,” shrieked Bunter.
“Then what became of Coker’s tuck?” asked the captain of the Remove. “It’s
gone!”
“I—I say, if a bobby comes, he—he might think it was me!” mumbled Bunter. “I—I
say, suppose—suppose he ran me in!”
“The Head would bail you out!” said Skinner.
“Ha, ha, ha!”  
“I—I don’t believe a—a bobby will come at all—.” howled Bunter. “They jolly
well wouldn’t send a bobby here about apples and pears and a jam-roll—.”
“You see, being a case of a daylight burglary, they’re bound to get the villain
if they can—!”
“Beast!”
Billy Bunter did not wholly believe that a “bobby” was coming. But he could not
feel sure. He remained in a state of deep and uneasy trepidation—and from the
bottom of his fat heart, he wished that he had resisted the lure of Horace
Coker’s hamper. Which was quite a desirable frame of mind for Bunter to be
in—though it was not likely to last, perhaps, longer than his dread of the
arrival of a constable from Courtfield.

CHAPTER XX

SIX FOR SMITHY!

VERNON-SMITH strolled past the
door of Masters’ Common-Room, and loitered a little, with ear bent to listen.
The door of that august apartment was shut, but from many voices could be
heard.
Mr. Prout’s deep boom mingled, in turn, with the squeak of Mr. Capper, master
of the Fourth, the acid tones Hacker, master of the Shell, the bleat of Twigg,
the second-form master, and the mumble of Wiggins, master the Third—with an
occasional shrill interjection from Monsieur Charpentier, the French master,
and a still more occasional word or two in the pleasant voice of Lascelles, the
games-master. All the beaks seemed to be going strong—on the subject, as Smithy
gathered, of the last Master’s Meeting—no doubt an important matter to the beaks.
Which was satisfactory to Smithy, as he passed on, and turned the corner into
Masters’ Studies.
Smithy was not interested in the “jaw” in Common-Room. He was only interested
to ascertain that the beaks were there, and not in their studies.
Smithy was, in fact, designing a visit, of a surreptitious nature, to his own
beak’s study. Quelch, he knew, was out—and he had heard Quelch mention to
another beak, before he went, that he was going to Redclyffe. If Quelch was
walking round to Redclyffe and back, he was not likely to materialise at
Greyfriars for quite a long time yet. So far as Quelch was concerned, the coast
was clear. But the wary Bounder did not want to be spotted by any other beak in
the neighbourhood of Master’ Studies—considering what he had in mind.
Having ascertained that the Staff were happily occupied in wagging their chins
in Common-Room, Smithy cut along to Quelch’s study without further delay,
whipped in, and closed the door after him.
He grinned at a pile of Form papers on the Remove master’s table.
It was quite a large pile. And Henry Samuel Quelch, when he came in from his
walk, was going to sit down to that pile, and in his unfailing dutiful way,
examine every one of them.
Other beaks were not always so meticulous as Quelch in such matters. But Quelch
was extremely conscientious—more so really than his form could have desired!
Quelch was certain to look at every paper with a keen eye: with subsequent
trouble for careless fellows who had mixed up their ablatives with their datives.
Smithy could, when he liked, turn out a really good Latin paper. But he did not
always like. And he was aware that his paper, in that pile, was far from being
calculated to gratify Quelch when he looked over it. His idea was that Quelch
was not going to look over It.
From his pocket, Smithy drew a bottle of gum, and proceeded to extract the
cork.
He had plenty of time. Quelch, on that long walk, was still miles away. Nobody
had seen Smithy come to the study—nobody was going to see him leave. When Quelch
found that heap of papers in a solid block—every sheet stuck to the next with
gum—he would have the whole form to choose from to find the culprit.
This was Smithy’s idea of a “jape” on his beak. Incidentally, it would prevent
Quelch from examining his Latin prose, and save him from the just consequences
of slap-dash carelessness. He chuckled softly as he extracted the cork from the
gum bottle.
As he did so, he heard the sound of a car outside the House. He did not heed
it—a car did not, in his mind, connect itself with Quelch, who had gone for one
of his long walks.
Smithy was, of course, quite unaware of what had happened in Redclyffe Lane: and could not possibly have guessed that Mr. Quelch, with a battered hat and
a bump on his head, had been glad to pick up a taxi and get back to the school
on wheels.
Not for a moment did he suspect that his form-master,  thus arriving back at
Greyfriars a good hour earlier than he would otherwise have done, was stepping
from a taxi, with a headache and a rather bad temper, while he was getting the
cork out of the gum-bottle.
The cork came out of the bottle and the Bounder stepped to his form-master’s
table. His left hand was stretched out to the pile of Form papers—his right
held the gum-bottle ready to pour—when he suddenly paused. Footsteps came along
the passage—and the Bounder caught his breath. He knew that tread.
“Quelch!”
He was fairly caught! For a moment, the Bounder of Greyfriars was utterly
dismayed.
But Smithy was quick on the uptake.
The gum did not pour from the bottle. He was deeply thankful that not a drip
had fallen. Swiftly he jammed back the cork, and the gum bottle disappeared
into his pocket. At the same moment, he stepped away from the table.
He was only in time. The door opened, and Mr. Quelch walked into the study.
He crossed directly from the door towards the telephone on the table near the
window. It was Mr. Quelch’s intention to ring up the police-station at
Courtfield immediately, and put the law on the track of the ruffian who had attacked
him in Redclyffe Lane. Not expecting anyone to be in his study, he had almost
reached the telephone before he saw the Bounder standing there. He stopped, his
gimlet-eyes fixed on Herbert Vernon-Smith.
“Vernon-Smith! What are you doing here?” he rapped.
His gimlet-eyes almost penetrated into Smithy.
Mr. Quelch knew that member of his form—knew him very well indeed. He hardly
needed telling that the scapegrace of Greyfriars was in “his study for no good
motive. He was fully prepared to find gum in his inkwell, or in the seat of his
armchair, or something of the kind. A grim frown gathered on his brow. There
was an ache in the majestic nut where Nosey’s cudgel had cracked through his
hat, and Quelch was not in his bonniest mood. Certainly he was in no mood for
japes from reckless members of his form.
But the Bounder was quite cool now. His answer came glibly: “I hope you will
excuse me, sir, I thought you wouldn’t mind my coming here to look out a word
in your Greek lexicon, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Quelch, very drily.
Smithy had no scruple whatever in “telling the tale” in dealing with beaks and
prefects. Among his form-fellows he would not have lied: but with a beak he was
quite unscrupulous. Unluckily for him, Quelch was quite well aware of his peculiar
moral code on that subject.
But Quelch was a just man. He did not, as a matter of fact, believe a word of
it, but he was not going to be hasty, even in dealing with a member of his form
whose word was worth very little.
“Indeed!” he repeated. “You did not come here to play some trick in my study
during my absence, Vernon- Smith?
“Oh, no, sir!” said the Bounder, innocently. “I just wanted to look out a word
or two in Liddell and Scott, sir if you wouldn’t mind—.”
“I do not mind in the least, Vernon-Smith. You may tell me the words you
desired to look out.”
“Oh, certainly, sir! I came on the words ‘
asbestos gelos’
in a book, and
thought I’d like to know what it meant.”
Quelch’s face cleared.
If Smithy was lying, he certainly had it pat. As a matter of fact, Smithy had
come on those words in a book, but he had never had the slightest desire to
know what they meant—till now. They had remained in his memory, and now he was
making use of them, that was all. There was no doubt that Smithy had his wits about
him!
“
Asbestos gelos!
” repeated Mr. Quelch, quite benignly.
“Very good! The phrase means ‘inextinguishable  laughter’, Vernon-Smith—it is
found in Homer, and refers to the laughter of the gods on Olympus when Vulcan
clumsily played cup-bearer.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” said Vernon-Smith.
“Very well, my boy: you may go.”
And Vernon-Smith went—and did not grin till he was outside Quelch’s door, with
the door shut. It was, after all, easy to pull Quelch’s leg.
Mr. Quelch was left with quite a benign expression on his face. This incident
looked like a sign of grace in a rather disreputable member of his form.
However, he had to telephone, and he turned towards that instrument. This
brought him in sight of his fireplace, and he gave a sudden start.
Inside the fender was a flood of ink. Quelch’s eyes fixed on that inky pool
with a glint in them.
Had he observed any signs of a “rag” in the study before, he certainly would
not have swallowed the Bounder’s glib explanation of his presence there. But no
such sign had met the gimlet-eyes—till he saw that flood of ink in the
fireplace.
He breathed hard through his nose, stepped to the door, and opened it. Vernon-Smith
was going down the passage, and had almost reached the corner. He stopped
suddenly at a bark from behind.
“Vernon-Smith!”
 “Oh!” Smithy spun round, the grin vanishing from his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Come here at once.”
“Oh! Yes, sir.”
The Bounder bit his lip, as he walked back to the study. It looked as if he had
not “got by” after all so successfully as he had supposed.
Mr. Quelch had picked up the cane from his table. The Bounder eyed it uneasily
as he came back into the study.
“Vernon-Smith! You have told me that you came here to look out a word in my
Greek lexicon—!”
“Yes, sir!”
“And that you had not come to play tricks in my study—.”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“As I find that my inkpot has been emptied into my fender, Vernon-Smith, I
cannot accept your statement.”
“Oh!” gasped Smithy.
He was quite unaware that Quelch’s inkpot had been emptied into his fender. He
had not looked at the fender or the inkpot. Some ass must have been japing in
the study before Smithy’s arrival there! He blinked at his form-master in
dismay.
Mr. Quelch swished the cane.
“You will bend over that chair, Vernon-Smith.”
“But, sir, I—I————!” stammered the Bounder.
“I should not cane you, Vernon-Smith, for this foolish trick—I should deem an
imposition of fifty lines sufficient,” said Mr. Quelch. “But untruthfulness is
a much more serious matter. I shall cane you for untruthfulness, Vernon-Smith.
Bend over that chair at once.”
The Bounder, setting his lips, bent over the chair. He had not upset that ink
in the fender—but assuredly he had spoken untruthfully: and it was for
untruthfulness that he was going to be whopped—as he deserved. The fact that he
deserved it was not much comfort to him, however, as the cane in Quelch’s
vigorous hand came swiping down.
Whop! whop! whop! Whop! whop! whop! It was “six” of the best!
“You may go, Vernon-Smith!” said Mr. Quelch, grimly: and the Bounder,
wriggling, went.
Then Mr. Quelch laid down the cane, and sat down to the telephone, and told his
news to Courtfield Police- Station. After which, he went along to the Common-
Room, where the lingering ache in his majestic nut did not prevent him from
taking his full share in the tide of “chin-wag” on the subject of Masters’
Meetings.
His study was vacant once more, if Smithy had thought of carrying on with his
design on the Form papers. But Smithy was not thinking any longer of exploits
with a gum-bottle. Smithy was in his study in the Remove, wriggling from the
swipes of Quelch’s cane—not in the least inclined to give Quelch further
occasion for handling that cane.