Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (16 page)

But all things come to an end:
and at length the welcome hour struck. Bunter jumped up in a hurry. He was
anxious to be first out of the form-room—with a wary eye on the Bounder. But
Quelch did not immediately give the word of dismissal. His gimlet-eyes fixed on
the fat Owl.
“Bunter!” he rapped.
“Oh. yes, sir!” groaned Bunter. Surely that awful beast was not going to keep
him in—with two pounds in his pocket!
“I have a word to say to you, Bunter! I have spoken to you several times on the
subject of the sum to be paid for the comestibles abstracted from a Fifth-form
boy’s study. On each occasion you have told me that you were expecting a
remittance from home, and I have allowed the matter to stand over. I can allow
it to stand over no longer, Bunter.”
“I—I—I’m expecting a postal-order, sir—!” stammered Bunter.
 “Oh, lor’!”
 “You received a letter from your father this morning, Bunter. Did it contain
the remittance you have assured me you were expecting to receive, or did it
not?”
 “Oh!” Bunter realised that Quelch, one of whose duties it was to look over correspondence
in the Remove, was aware of that letter from Mr. Bunter. “I—I——no, sir—I—I
mean—yes, sir—I—I mean—Oh scissors!”  
 “If you have the money, Bunter, place it on my desk at once!” snapped Mr.
Quelch.
Bunter blinked at him dolorously. His fat hand, in pocket, clutched two
postal-orders, each for a pound! There was no help for it! Sausage-rolls in
Mrs. Mimble’s shop faded away like a beautiful dream! It had to be!
 “Do you hear me, Bunter?” rumbled Mr. Quelch.
“Oh! Yes, sir!” groaned Bunter.
He rolled to his form-master’s desk. Two crumpled and rather sticky
postal-orders were placed thereon. Mr. Quelch glanced at them.
“It will; be necessary for you to cash these, Bunter, as they are made out in
your name. Do so, and bring the money to my study.
“Oh! Yes, sir!” gasped Bunter.
And the postal-orders were in the sticky pocket again,  as Bunter rolled out of
the form-room with the Remove.

CHAPTER XXXI

A FRIEND IN NEED!

“BOB, old chap——!” 
Bob Cherry was going into the quad, when a fat paw clutched at his sleeve, He
halted, good-naturedly, and gave the Owl of the Remove an inquiring glance.  
“I—I say, Smithy’s waiting just outside the House—!” mumbled Bunter.
“Is he?” said Bob. He glanced out into the sunny quad. Herbert Vernon-Smith was
in sight, talking with Redwing and Hazeldene. Bob glanced at Bunter’s worried
face.
“What about it, fatty?”
I—I say, old chap, he’s waiting for me,” breathed Bunter. “You know he makes
out that he’s going to have one of my postal-orders—.”
Bob Cherry chuckled.
“You fat chump!” he said. “Smithy was only pulling your silly leg. He wouldn’t
pick up your postal-order with a pair of tongs.”
“Oh, don’t be an ass!” said Bunter, peevishly. “Of course, I’m going to settle
with Smithy, fair and square— I’m a sportsman, I hope! But—but a bit later,
see? I’m expecting a postal-order tomorrow—.”
“Fathead!”
“Beast! I—I mean, do listen to a chap, old fellow. I—I say, you could lick
Smithy easily, Bob.”
“Lick him!” repeated Bob, blankly.
“Easily! said Bunter. “You’re the best boxer in the form, and you’ve got
pluck—heaps of pluck. Never knew such a plucky chap as you, Bob. Every man in
the Remove admires your pluck. Pluckiest chap at Greyfriars, and chance it.
You’re not afraid of a tick like Smithy, Bob! Not you, old fellow! I—I say, you
jolly well lick Smithy, and—and I’ll stand you some sausage rolls at the shop
afterwards—honour bright!”
Bob Cherry gazed at him.
“You fat, frabjous, frumptious, foozling fathead—!” he began.
“Oh, really, Cherry! I don’t mean I want you to lick Smithy to keep him busy
while I cut across to the tuck-shop,” explained Bunter. “I don’t mean that at
all. But because of what he’s been saying about you, old fellow—.”
“About me?” ejaculated Bob.
“You, old chap! What do you think he called you? A lumbering lunatic with the
biggest feet at Greyfriars,” said Bunter. “He says he doesn’t know how Inky and
Linley and Wun Lung get into No. 13 Study when you’ve got your feet there.”
“Does he?” gasped Bob.
“Yes, and worse than that,” said Bunter. “He says you can’t play cricket for
toffee and you can handle a bat as if you were threshing corn, and stand in the
field like a sack of coke! I’d jolly well lick a fellow who said things like
that about me, Bob!”
“I jolly well will!” said Bob. “At least, I’ll jolly well kick him.”
“That’s right,” said Bunter, eagerly. “You go and kick Smithy, old chap, and
jolly well lick him if he doesn’t like it. I forgot to mention that he said
you’d got a voice like megaphone, and a face like a Turkey carpet—.”
“Jolly good of you to tell me all this, Bunter! I shall certainly kick the
fellow who says all those pretty things about me.”
“Go it, old chap!” urged Bunter.
“Here goes!” said Bob: and he grabbed the fat Owl’s collar, and skewed him
round into a favourable position for kicking.
“Ow! Leggo!” roared Bunter, in alarm. “I—I say, wharrer you up to? Gone mad? I
say, wharrer you going to do, you idiot?”
‘Kick the fellow who said all those pretty things about me old fat man,”
answered Bob, cheerily. And he did! 
Thud!
“Yaroooop!” roared Bunter. “Ow! Beast! Whoop!”
Bob Cherry chuckled, and went on his way: leaving the fat Owl wriggling, and
with the problem of Smithy still unsolved.
When he blinked out of the doorway again, the Bounder was still standing there,
with Redwing and Hazel. That he had forgotten the fat Owl’s podgy existence did
not occur to Bunter. Bunter had no doubt that Smithy was waiting for him to
claim “halves”. He fully expected Smithy to pounce on him the moment he emerged
from the house.
“I say, Harry, old chap,” squeaked Bunter, as the captain of the Remove came
along. “Hold on a minute! I say, Quelch wants Smithy in his study. Go and tell
him, will you?”
“Did Quelch say so?”
“Oh, yes, old chap! He called to me from his study a minute or two ago, and
told me he wanted Smithy—.”
Harry Wharton laughed.
“I must be getting deaf,” he remarked. “I’ve just seen Quelch, and I never
heard him call to you.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean Quelch—I meant Lascelles! He’s  not satisfied with a problem
Smithy did for him,” explained Bunter. “Tell Smithy the maths master is waiting
for him in his study, will you?” 
“Queer that the maths master should be in his study, while the games-master’s
on the cricket ground,” remarked Wharton.
Larry Lascelles was both games and maths master, and Wharton was on his way to
see the games-master on the cricket ground. So he really was not likely to
believe that the maths master was in his study!
“Oh! Is he?” stammered Bunter. “I didn’t know—I— I mean it’s the Head wants
Smithy! Go and tell him, old chap—he can’t keep Dr. Locke waiting, you know! I
say, don’t walk away while a fellow’s talking to you!” howled Bunter.
But the captain of the Remove did walk away, laughing.
“Beast!” breathed Bunter.
His problem was still unsolved. He blinked out of the doorway again, to
ascertain whether Smithy was still there.
Smithy had left Redwing and Hazel, and was coming into the House. As Bunter
blinked out, Smithy walked in.
“Oh!” gasped Bunter. He was fairly caught. “I—I—I say, Smithy, Quelch—I mean
Lascelles—that is, the Head—wants you on the cricket ground—I—I mean—.”
“You fat chump!” said Smithy. “Why haven’t you started for the post-office?”
“Eh?” Bunter was not thinking of the post-office: he was thinking of the
tuck-shop. Mrs. Mimble would cash those postal-orders for him, in exchange for
tuck.
“You’ve time to walk to Friardale and back before dinner. The sooner you cash
those postal-orders, and hand the cash over to Quelch, the better.”
“Oh!” gasped Bunter. “I—I thought—.” He realised that the Bounder was not after
“halves”, after all. “D-d-don’t you want one of the pounds, Smithy?”
“No, you fat ass! No, you blithering bandersnatch! Hasn’t it dawned on that
lump of tallow you call a brain that I was only pulling your silly leg?” The Bounder
walked on: but he turned back again. “Look here, Bunter, don’t be a fool, if
you can help it! Cut off to the post- office.”
“I—I—I’m just going, Smithy.”
And Bunter went! He was relieved of his terrors of the Bounder, and his fat
face was cheerful again.
But he did not roll in the direction of the gates. Smithy had given him good
advice: but good advice was a sheer waste on Bunter. The call of the tuck-shop
was too insistent. Bunter rolled across the quad, heading for Mrs. Mimble’s
establishment behind the elms.
“Oh, here you are!” said a familiar voice.
Bunter blinked at Peter Todd, standing in the doorway of the school shop.
Peter, it seemed, was waiting for him there.
“Here I am, Peter,” said Bunter, with a rather dubious blink at his study-mate.
“I—I’m going to stand you some sausage-rolls, Peter—.”
“You’re not!” said Peter. “You’re coming for a walk with me, old fat man.” He
linked a lean arm in Bunter’s fat one. “This way!”
“I’ve got to go into the shop—.”
“Not at all!”
“Leggo, you beast!” howled Bunter. “Wharrer you up to? I’m not going for a
walk! Where do you want me to go?” 
 “Nice walk down to Friardale—.” 
 “I’m not going to Friardale.”
“Your mistake,” said Peter, “you are! Come on.”  
 Billy Bunter gave him a glare of concentrated fury.
“Will you leggo my arm?” he howled. “You mind your own business, Toddy.”
“Isn’t this my business?” asked Toddy. “Ain’t I your keeper?”
“Why, you cheeky beast—!”
“Come on, old fat frump. I’m taking your arm for a walk, anyway—you can please
yourself whether you come along with it.”
Peter Todd walked off towards the gates, taking Bunter’s fat arm with him.
Billy Bunter accompanied the arm. A parting would have been painful.
The fat Owl’s face was crimson with fury as Peter walked him out of gates. On
the way down Friardale Lane, he told Peter Todd what he thought of him—not
once, but many times, and with growing emphasis.
They arrived at the village post-office, Bunter, by that time, in a state of
wrath inexpressible in words. But there was no help for it: inexorably, Peter
marched him into the post-office.
“Where’s the postal-orders, old fat foozler?” asked Peter.
“Oh! I—I left them in the study, Peter—!”
“Not in your pocket?”
“N-nunno!”
“Better make sure,” suggested Peter. “You see, I’m going to bang your head on
the counter till you cough them up—.”
“Beast! I—I think they’re in my pocket, after all—.”
“I fancied so!” agreed Peter.
The postal-orders were duly cashed. Billy Bunter rolled out of the post-office
with two pound notes in the sticky pocket.
All the way back to Greyfriars, Bunter was revolving plans in his fat mind to
dodge Peter when they arrived at the school. But Peter was undodgeable. His
lean arm was affectionately linked in Bunter’s as they walked across the quad,
and they went into the House together.
“I—I say, Peter, you needn’t come with me to Quelch!” breathed Bunter, as he
was led to Masters’ Studies. “Quelch won’t expect to see you—.”
“No reason why I shouldn’t give my form-master an unexpected pleasure,”
answered Peter.
“Will you leggo my arm?” hissed Bunter.
“Yes: when you’re in Quelch’s study.”
“Beast!” groaned Bunter.
Peter tapped at the Remove master’s door with his free hand. He opened it when
Mr. Quelch called “Come in”. Bunter gave a last desperate wrench at his arm.
Then be was pushed into the study.
“Oh! It is you, Bunter?” said Mr. Quelch. “You may lay the money on the table,
Bunter. I shall see that it is handed to Coker.”
Two pound notes were laid on the Remove master’s table. Billy Bunter gave them
a last, longing blink. Then he rolled out of the study. In the passage, when
the door was shut, he bestowed a look on Peter Todd, compared with which the
expression of the fabled basilisk would have been considered a kindly smile.
“Beast!” he hissed. “Rotter! Tick! Smudge! Smear! Blot!”
“Hear, hear!” said Peter.
And he walked away cheerfully. Bunter, far from cheerful, rolled after him. It
was true that Peter had saved him from a fearful row. But Billy Bunter was not
thinking of that. He was thinking of sausage-rolls, and jam-sponge, and
ginger-pop, and ripe red apples, and other things so much more attractive than
paying bills. Not till the dinner bell rang did the cloud of gloom lift on
Bunter’s podgy
brow. But there was steak-and-kidney pie for dinner, and plenty of it: and
Billy Bunter’s fat countenance brightened as he realised that life, after all,
was still worth living.

CHAPTER XXXII

BUNTER ALL OVER!

“WHY not Bunter?”
“Eh?”
“What?” 
Harry Wharton asked the question in No. I Study. The Famous Five had gathered
there for tea, and the talk, naturally, ran on cricket. The match at Highcliffe
was due in a few days, and it rather filled the minds of the Remove cricketers.
But Wharton, it seemed, was able to spare a thought or two for a much less important
subject—William George Bunter, the fat ornament of the Lower Fourth.
Four fellows stared at him blankly.
“Did you say why not Bunter?” asked Johnny Bull.
“Just that!”
“The whynotfulness is surely terrific!” remarked Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
“Is it a joke?” asked Bob Cherry, mystified. “We’re talking cricket—not Bunter.
Oil and water don’t mix.” 
“All the same, why not Bunter?” repeated the captain of the Remove. “We’re
playing the Fourth Form tomorrow afternoon. It’s practically a practice match,
though Temple doesn’t look at it in that light. We can beat the Fourth at
cricket, or anything else, on the backs of our necks. Well, Bunter’s keen to
show up in games—.”
“Oh, fearfully keen!” snorted Johnny Bull. “He shows it by rolling out a string
of whoppers to get off games practice.”
“Well, he is a lazy toad, and a slacking fat frog, and a prevaricating fat
porker,” admitted the captain of the Remove, “but he would jump at playing in a
match, to let Quelch see him doing it. See?”
“After all, we could beat the Fourth a man short, and that’s what it would come
to,” remarked Frank Nugent.
“Exactly.”
“But what’s the game?” demanded Johnny Bull. “Is Bunter to be rewarded for
clacking and frowsting and fibbing, by being given a place in the team?”
“Not precisely. But you know, he’s up against it,” said Harry. “He’s told
everybody who will listen—and everybody who won’t, as well—that he’s got to
blow away for good at the end of the term, unless he gets a good report from
Quelch. Quelch is fed up with his slacking. He called him slack in class and
slack at games—.”
“And so he is!” grunted Johnny. “Slack at everything but snooping grub and
stuffing it.”
“Still, if we could help him get a decent report—.”
“He could do that himself if he liked to put in a spot of work.”
“He doesn’t like work,” said Wharton, laughing. “No reason why we shouldn’t
help a lame dog over a stile, if we can. We can’t push him on in class. We
can’t make him do his prep, or hand out a decent con, or remember that Canada
isn’t the capital of the United States, or add two and two together without
making six or seven of it, or prevent him from describing an isosceles triangle
as passive in form but active in meaning—!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“All that’s up to Quelch—and Quelch doesn’t seem to have much luck. But it
would be a point in his favour if he played in a cricket match. Quelch would
sit up and take notice. He might get a run or two—.”
“The mightfulness is preposterous!”
“He might make a catch in the field—.”
“Not unless somebody gave him the ball on a plate,” said Bob.
“Anyhow, there he would be, playing cricket! It might give him a leg-up with
Quelch.”
“Are we running Remove cricket to give a fat, frowsy frowster a leg-up with
Quelch?” grunted Johnny Bull.
“Not wholly, old bean. But we can beat the Fourth, even with Bunter in the
team. They haven’t an earthly. So—why not Bunter?”
“Cricket’s cricket!” said Johnny. “It won’t hurt us to chuck away a wicket,
playing Temple’s lot. Still, cricket’s cricket, see?”
“Oh, go it,” said Bob. “The fat old rooster is down on his luck, and it might
help him. By gum, though, it will make the fellows stare to see his name up in
the Rag!”
“I say, you fellows!”
The door of No. I Study was pushed open, and Billy Bunter’s fat face looked in.
He blinked in rather cautiously Fascinating fellow as he was, Bunter knew that
he was not always
persona grata
in a Remove study at tea-time.
But for once, rather to his surprise, he received a hearty greeting.
“Roll in, old barrel!” called out the captain of the Remove. “Just the man I
want to see.”
Bunter rolled in promptly, his fat face eager. “What have you got?” he asked.
His eyes, and spectacles, roved over the table. “I say, you fellows, you seem
to have finished tea. Anything more in the cupboard?”
“No! Think you could possibly think of anything but feeding for a minute or
two?” asked Harry. “If so, we’ll talk about cricket.”
“Oh, cricket!” said Bunter. The eagerness died out of his fat face. “I thought
you meant—!”
“Well, I didn’t! I’ve thought of giving you a chance in the eleven, old fat
man. Chance for you to show Quelch that you’re not such a slacker at games,
see?”
“Oh!” said Bunter. He sniffed. “It’s taken you a jolly long time to find out
that I can play cricket, Harry Wharton.”
“Eh?”
“I’m not sure I can play,” said Bunter, loftily. “This is jolly sudden. You’ve
left me out ever since the matches started. Now all of a sudden you find out
that you want me. Well, I’m not at all sure I shall play.”
The captain of the Remove stared at him blankly. From four other fellows came a
yell of laughter.
“You can cackle,” said Bunter, warmly, “but that’s how I look at it. I’ve been
passed over—left out in the cold—the best cricketer in the form, and chance it.
Now I’m told all of a sudden that I’m wanted. Well, I don’t see it, see? Mind,
I’m not saying I won’t play, Wharton. But you can’t expect a man to say here
and now that he will play, springing it on him at the last minute like this.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the Co. Harry Wharton’s face was quite a study.
“Still, I’ll see what I can do,” said Bunter, generously. “I’d like Quelch to
see me playing for the form, as I’ve told you. He can hardly make out that I’m
slack at games, when he sees me piling up runs for the Remove. It might make a
lot of difference in my report. ‘Good at games’ sounds well—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I wish you fellows wouldn’t cackle whenever a fellow opens his mouth. They
stand you a pretty good tea at Highcliffe, I believe. You can put my name
down.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“You howling ass!” roared the captain of the Remove, “do you think I was
thinking of the Highcliffe match, you benighted bloater?”
“Eh! Weren’t you?” asked Bunter. “I remember I told you I’d rather play in a
home match—St. Jim’s. or Bookwood, or Carcroft. But as it happens, that’s all
right. I heard Quelch say he was going to walk over to Highcliffe on Wednesday
afternoon to see the game. So he will see me play. Highcliffe’s all right for me.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” shrieked the Co.
“You—you—you frumptious chump!” gasped Harry Wharton. “I can see myself putting
you in the eleven for Highcliffe! We’re playing the Fourth tomorrow, and that’s
your game, fathead.”
“Look here, Wharton, it’s no good ‘wasting a man of my form in a footling match
with Temple’s crowd! I’d prefer the Highcliffe match!” declared Bunter. “I may
as well speak plainly—now you’ve found out that I can play cricket! I’ll play
at Highcliffe, or I won’t play at all! That’s that!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“O.K.—you won’t- play at all!” said the captain of the ‘Remove. “Roll out of
this study before I kick you.”
“Oh, really, Wharton—!”
“You fat, frumptious, footling foozler, I was going to put you in the Form
match to give you a leg-up with Quelch. But I’d rather not, see? Now roll
away.”
“Oh!” said Bunter, blinking at him.
It was borne in upon Bunter’s fat mind that his form captain hadn’t suddenly
discovered his qualities as a cricketer.
“Oh!” repeated Bunter. “I—I don’t mind if I play in , the Form match, old
chap.”
“I do! Shut the door after you.”
“What I really mean is, I’m jolly keen to play!” explained Bunter. “It will do
Quelch good to see me knocking up a century, even against the Fourth—.”
“Ye gods!” gasped Bob Cherry. “I fancy it would take you a good many centuries
to do it, old fat man.”
“Yah! It’s a go, Wharton! Rely on me,” said Bunter. “I’ve, got rather a lot of
engagements on Saturday afternoon—you know how it is, when a fellow’s
popular—his time’s never really his own. But I’ll cut everything, and play
cricket. I’m your man.”
And Billy Bunter rolled out of No. 1 Study: leaving the captain of the Remove
glaring, and four other fellows chuckling. There was nothing to eat in No. 1
Study, so there was no reason for Bunter to linger there. He rolled up the
passage to call on Lord Mauleverer.