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

CHAPTER I

BUNTER KNOWS

 
“BUNTER!”
Mr. Quelch’s voice was not loud but deep. It was heard distinctly by all ears
in the Remove form-room at Greyfriars School: excepting apparently, one pair of
very fat ears.
Billy Bunter did not answer.
It was the second time Quelch had called his name. Quelch seldom had to call on
any boy in the Remove twice.  Now he had called twice, and still in vain.
Bunter was silent.
There was a stirring in the Remove, as fellows turned their heads to look at
Bunter, wondering why he did not reply. Really, it was not safe for any Remove
man to pass Quelch by like the idle wind which he regarded not. Yet there sat
Billy Bunter, staring straight at his form-master through his big spectacles,
but otherwise not deigning to take the slightest notice of him!
It was a warm afternoon. Outside the sun shone from a blue sky. Within, it was
a little stuffy, and a little drowsy. Mr. Quelch was expounding English history
to his form, but seldom had the Greyfriars Remove been less interested in the
sayings and doings of earlier generations. Lord Mauleverer had nearly nodded
off, but caught himself just in time. Herbert Vernon-Smith had yawned once -
but, catching Mr. Quelch’s gimlet-eye, was very careful not to yawn again.
Harry Wharton and Co. could not help thinking of the cricket field, where they
would have felt ever so much livelier. Many eyes turned, longingly, on the form
room clock. Its hands seemed to crawl.
Perhaps Mr. Quelch would have been as pleased to dismiss his form, as the
Remove would have been to hear the word of dismissal. Schoolmasters tire as
well as schoolboys. But Quelch had his duty to do: and Quelch was a whale on
duty. Right up to the last minute, Quelch was going to drive English history
into reluctant heads. Every man in the Remove, that drowsy afternoon, would
have been quite satisfied with a much less dutiful form-master.
“Bunter!”
Quelch’s voice was a little louder, and a little deeper.
“Third time of asking!” murmured Bob Cherry, and some of the juniors grinned.
Bob did not intend that whisper to reach Quelch’s ears. But that afternoon
Quelch’s ears seemed to be as sharp as his eyes.
“Cherry!” he rapped,
“Oh!” Bob jumped, as his name was shot at him like a bullet. “Oh! Yes, sir.”
“Were you talking in class, Cherry?”
“Oh! No! Yes! I—!” stammered Bob.
“Take fifty lines for talking in class, Cherry!”
“Oh! Yes, sir!
Nobody else ventured to whisper, Quelch, evidently, was getting shirty. Harry
Wharton, ‘who had opened his lips to breathe a warning to Bunter, closed them
again. Johnny Bull, who had lifted a foot to give the fat junior a warning
shove under the desks, dropped it to the floor. Frank Nugent, about to drop a
book and thus startle the Owl of the Remove into activity, decided not to do
so. Quelch’s gimlet-eye ‘was glittering: and no fellow wanted to draw it
specially upon himself.
“BUNTER!”
For the fourth time, Henry Samuel Quelch called upon the fattest member of his
form: and this time his voice was not only both loud and deep, but very loud
and very deep. Indeed it rather resembled that of Stentor of ancient times, It
woke the echoes of the form-room, It could have been heard in the corridor
outside the door and in the quadrangle under the windows. Yet, strange to
relate, it produced no effect whatever on Billy Bunter.
William George Bunter sat silent, staring indifferently at Mr. Quelch. A ray of
sunlight from the window was reflected on his big spectacles, making them gleam
almost like headlights. No doubt that was why Mr. Quelch could not see that
Bunter’s eyes were closed behind those big glasses! To all appearances, Bunter
was staring him straight in the face --- but appearances ,are sometimes
deceptive. Actually, the warmth and drowsiness of the afternoon, and perhaps
the drone of Quelch’s voice, had been too much for Bunter, and he had dozed
off. Mauleverer very nearly had. Bunter quite had.
And so it came to pass that, in the midst and shadows of sleep, Bunter did not
hear the voice of his form-master and, naturally, did not reply thereto.
Certainly Quelch’s voice, when he raised it, was calculated to awaken most
sleepers. But sleeping was one of the things that Billy Bunter did well. There
were many things at which Bunter was not good. He was not good at games. He was
not good in class. He was not good even at such simple, easy things as telling
the truth. But  when it came to sleeping, Epimenides himself had nothing on
Bunter.
Billy Bunter had gone to sleep sitting up, though the gleam of his spectacles
gave him the appearance of being wide awake. Fellows sitting near him knew how
the matter stood. Fellows further off didn’t-and Quelch didn’t! Quelch gazed at
him, in perplexity, and growing anger. Quelch was not a man to be lightly
disregarded in his form.
“BUNTER!”
Quelch almost roared. Still Bunter did not reply. Still he did not stir. But,
as if in answer to his form-master, a sound came from Bunter: 
Snore!
Bunter generally snored when he slept. In the  Remove dormitory, Bunter’s deep
snore was want to rumble on through the night, like the unending melody in
Wagnerian music—not perhaps quite so musical! So far he had not snored in
class. Now he did!
Mr. Quelch gave an almost convulsive start. The truth dawned on him. He
realised that Bunter’s eyes were shut behind those gleaming glasses—that Bunter
had fallen asleep in class.
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Mr. Quelch.  
Snore! Snorrrrrrrre! Having started, Bunter seemed bent on making up for lost
time. His snore rumbled and echoed.
“The boy is asleep!” exclaimed Mr. Quelch.
Snore! came from Bunter—only too clearly the boy was asleep!
There was a subdued chuckle in the Remove. It died away at once, as Mr.
Quelch’s gimlet-eye gleamed round. It was not, so far as Mr. Quelch could see,
a matter for merriment.
Quelch was angry. And like the prophet of old, he felt that he did well to be
angry! He was indignant. Here was Quelch, labouring on a hot afternoon to
impart valuable instruction to his form—and there was Bunter, utterly
indifferent to instruction, oblivious of it, fast asleep in form! The
thunderous frown on Quelch’s brow was like unto the frightful, fearful, frantic
frown of the Lord High Executioner.
“Bunter!”
Snore!
“Skinner! Awaken that boy!” gasped Mr. Quelch.
“Certainly, sir!” said Skinner.
Skinner reached over to Bunter to awaken him. Harry Wharton or Bob Cherry would
have given the fat Owl a shake: but Skinner was not a good-natured fellow.
Skinner’s method of awakening Bunter was to take a fat ear between finger and
thumb, and pull. He took a good grip on Bunter’s ear—there was plenty of room
for it—and pulled.
It awakened Bunter. It awakened him quite suddenly. Billy Bunter came out of
the land of dreams with a jump and a yell.
“Yarooh! Ow! Leggo my ear, you beast! Wow! I say, you fellows—yow-ow. Ow! I
say, tain’t rising-bell! Ow!” Bunter jerked his fat ear away from Skinner,
rubbed it, and blinked round him dizzily, apparently under the impression that
he was in bed in the Remove dormitory. “Ow! Beasts! I tell you tain’t
rising-bell———”
“Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the Remove.
“Bunter!” thundered Mr. Quelch. 
“Oh, lor’!” The Owl of the Remove realised where he was. He blinked at Mr. Quelch
in terror. “Oh! I—I say—I—I wasn’t asleep, sir! I—I heard every word you were
saying, sir! Every sis-sis-syllable.”
“You were asleep in class, Bunter.”
“Oh, no, sir. I—I had my eyes shut, because—because I listen better with my
eyes shut, sir!” gasped Bunter. “I— I never missed a word, sir.”
The look that Henry Samuel Quelch gave that member of his form might have been
envied by the fabled basilisk.
“You heard what I was saying, Bunter?”
“Oh, yes, sir! I—I was listening very carefully, it was so—so interesting,”
groaned Bunter.
“Very well,” said Mr. Quelch, in a grinding voice, “I was speaking on the
subject of the Royal Oak, Bunter. Tell me what you know of the Royal Oak.”
Bunter blinked at him. So far as his hazy memory served him, Quelch had been
droning about the reign of King Charles when he nodded off to sleep. He was
unaware that while he slumbered Quelch had got to the Battle of Worcester, and
the escape of Charles the Second by hiding in the branches of an oak
tree—thereafter called the “royal oak.”
Of that Royal Oak Billy Bunter knew nothing at all. Possibly he had heard of it
before, but if so he had forgotten it—Bunter had an unlimited capacity for
forgetting anything he learned. Nevertheless, the name was familiar to him. He
had seen it on a sign-board, many a time and oft. There was a public-house on
the Courtfield road which, like dozens of others, was called the “Royal Oak.”
Greyfriars fellows passed it whenever they went to Courtfield. Bunter had seen
it often enough. But he was quite astonished to hear Quelch mention it in the
form-room!
“Did—did—did you say the—the Royal Oak. sir?” he stammered. Really he was not
quite sure that he had heard aright! A public-house was a most extraordinary
thing for Quelch to be telling his form about!
“I did!” snapped Mr. Quelch. “Do you know what the Royal Oak is, Bunter?”
 “Oh, yes, sir! Certainly.” The subject was no doubt extraordinary, for a
Greyfriars form-room, but it seemed an easy one to Bunter. “Of course, I’ve
never been in it, sir.”
“You have never been in it!” repeated Mr. Quelch, blankly.
“Oh, no, sir! It’s out of bounds.”
“Out of bounds!” repeated Mr. Quelch.
“Besides, I wouldn’t, even if it wasn’t, sir!” said Bunter. “My father wouldn’t
like it.”
Mr. Quelch gazed at him.
“Bunter! Is this intended for impertinence, or what? Answer me at once—what is
the Royal Oak?”
“It’s a pub, sir.”
“A—a—a what?” stuttered Mr. Quelch.
“A pub, sir! I—I mean a public-house!” amended Bunter, hastily.
“Ha, ha, ha!” shrieked the Remove. They really could not help it. Evidently
Billy Bunter had not heard a word of what Quelch had said of the Battle of
Worcester and the Royal Oak, and he fancied that Quelch was alluding to the
“pub” of that name on the Courtfield road.
“Silence!” thundered Mr. Quelch. “Silence in the form! Bunter, how dare you
make me such an answer?”
“You—you asked me, sir!” stuttered Bunter. “It—it really is a pub, sir—I mean a
public-house, sir—all the fellows know. Did—did—didn’t you know, sir?”
“Bunter! After class, you will write out, one hundred times, that King Charles
the Second hid in the Royal Oak after the Battle of Worcester.”
“But, sir—!” gasped Bunter.
“Silence!”
“But I—!”
“If you say another word, Bunter, I shall cane you.” Bunter did not say another
word!
Billy Bunter suppressed his indignant feelings. But his indignation was deep.
Quelch had asked him what the Royal Oak was. Bunter had told him. Yet he was
given a hundred lines—for nothing, so far as Bunter could see. What was the use
of a fellow answering questions correctly in the history class if he got a
hundred lines for giving the right answer?
It was a resentful and indignant Owl that sat through the remainder of the
history lesson, till at length the welcome hour struck, and the Remove were
dismissed.

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 cackling.” 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.