Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (17 page)

CHAPTER XXXIII

A MAN IN THE ELEVEN!

“W. G. BUNTER”.
“Ha, ha. ha!”
Remove men were always keen to see the cricket list when it was posted up in
the Rag. But never before had they greeted it with an outburst of merriment.
Now they did! The name of W. G. Bunter in the list was sufficient to set the
Rag in a roar.
W. G. Bunter himself had no doubt that he was a cricketer. There were few
things that Bunter did not believe that he could do—until he came to do them.
Not that Bunter’s belief in his powers would have been shattered by his wicket
going down to the first ball. Bunter would have scored a duck’s egg, or a pair
of spectacles, and still retained a happy belief that he was a budding Grace,
or Hobbs, or Bradman. Bunter did not feel quite certain whether he was kept out
of the Remove eleven by jealousy, or by sheer stupidity. But he knew that it
must be one or the other, or a mixture of both.
Bunter could see no cause for the merriment that greeted his name in the list
for the Form match. He was glad to see it there—but he regarded it not as his
due, but as a small instalment of his due. “W. G. Bunter” should have been in
the list for bigger matches, such as the fixtures with Tom Merry and Co. of St. Jim’s, or Jimmy Silver and Co. of Rookwood, or Compton and Co. of Carcroft. Still, this
was something to go on with.
Could Quelch make out that Bunter was slack at games, when roars of cheering
woke all the echoes of Greyfriars as Bunter piled up runs for his side?
Obviously, Quelch couldn’t!
As yet, however, there were no roars of cheering. There were only roars of
laughter.
Even fellows who were not cricketers, yelled at the idea of Bunter playing for
his form. Skinner enquired whether the captain of the Remove had gone mad.
Snoop remarked that it was the giddy limit. Fisher T. Fish guessed that it was
the elephant’s hind leg, and then some. Everybody stared, and everybody
chuckled, or chortled, or roared. Nobody would have expected to see Billy
Bunter’s
name in the list in a hop-scotch eleven. In a cricket eleven, it had the same
effect as Vulcan’s performance as head-waiter on Olympus—inextinguishable
laughter!
“But after all, cricket’s cricket,” remarked the Bounder.
“If that’s your idea of a joke, Wharton—!”
“We can beat the Fourth a man short,” answered Harry.
“Oh! Yes! That’s what it comes to,” agreed Smithy. “We could give them three or
four wickets and beat them. You’re only giving them one! Mind your eye when
Bunter gets hold of a bat, though. He’s liable to brain anybody in the offing.”
“Oh, really, Smithy—.”
“And for the love of Mike, don’t let him handle the ball. Nobody’s life would
be safe.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“You’d like to keep me in the shade, wouldn’t you, Smithy?” jeered Bunter. “You
don’t want the fellows to see how I bowl! You don’t want to risk being dropped
from the Highcliffe team to make room for a better man.”
“Oh, holy smoke!”
“We’re playing Bunter for his batting,” said the captain of the Remove,
laughing. “Lesser lights like Inky and Browney can look after the bowling.”
“That won’t do, Wharton!” said Bunter, firmly.
“Eh?”
“I said it won’t do! I admit that batting’s my long suit, as you seem to have
found out. But I can bowl. I don’t claim to be a first-class bowler—.”
“Don’t you?” gasped Bob Cherry. “Why not?”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Inky’s as good a man as I am with the leather,” said Bunter, “or jolly
nearly—.”
“The nearliness is terrific,” murmured Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
“And Browney can bowl—.”
“Thanks!” said the New Zealand junior, laughing. “Listen to the man who knows.”
“But you don’t bowl quite like I do, Browney—!”
“Not quite!” gurgled Tom Brown. “Oh! No! Hardly quite!”
“I don’t brag of my bowling,” said Bunter, blinking round at grinning faces. “I’m
not a fellow to brag, if you come to that. All I say is that I bowl better than
any other man in the Remove.”
“Modesty, thy name is Bunter!” chuckled Frank Nugent.
“Well, I don’t believe in false modesty,” said Bunter. “If a man can do a
thing, he can do it, and what’s the good of humbug about it? That’s how I look
at it. But the proof of the pudding’s in the eating. Just give me one over,
Wharton, and after that, you’ll be glad to give me all the bowling you can. Hat
tricks are hat tricks!”
“Oh, my only summer bonnet!” gurgled Bob Cherry.
“You give me one over, Wharton! I’ll leave it at that. You’re not much of a
judge of a fellow’s form, if you don’t mind my saying so—.”
“Not at all, old fat man! Run on.”
“O.K., old barrel,” said the captain of the Remove. “We can afford to chuck
away an over as well as a wicket, with Temple’s crowd. You shall bowl an over,
and if you bag a wicket, you shall bowl as many overs as you like afterwards.”
“Good!” said Bunter. “That will be all right for Quelch! I say, you fellows, we
ought to get Quelch to come down to the ground. I want him to see that I’m an
all-round man at cricket—good at bowling as well as batting. I want to impress
Quelch, you know, because of my report.” Bunter smiled complacently. “He may
make out, as usual, that I’m low down in class—but he won’t be able to make out
that I’m not a good man at games. That’s something! And,” added Bunter, with a
disdainful blink at the hilarious Removites, “you can jolly well cackle, if you
like!”
“Thanks!” gasped Bob Cherry, “we will!”
And they did.
“Done your lines, fatty?” asked Peter Todd, when the Owl of the Remove rolled
into No. 7 Study for prep that evening. Bunter, as often happened, had lines.
In form that morning, Bunter had construed “
O dea!
” into “Oh, dear!”
which had not seemed to satisfy Quelch somehow.
“I’ve no time, Peter,” answered Bunter.
“That means detention tomorrow afternoon, then.”
Bunter winked—a fat wink.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Quelch wouldn’t keep a man away from a match. I
shall explain to Quelchy that I’m wanted to play for the Form. He wouldn’t
detain a man in the eleven.”
At which Peter gurgled. Bunter was “a man in the eleven” now. Evidently he was
going to make the most of it.
After class the following morning, Mr. Quelch duly inquired for those lines.
Bunter was called back when the Remove went out, after third school.
“Have you written your lines, Bunter?” rumbled Mr. Quelch.
“Oh! No, sir! I—.”
“Very well! You will write them this afternoon, Bunter, before you leave the
House.”
“If—If you please, sir—.”
“That will do, Bunter! You may go.”
“But, sir, I—.”
“I have said that you may go, Bunter!” rapped Mr. Quelch.
“But—but I’m playing cricket this afternoon, sir,” gasped Bunter. “I’m wanted
to play for the Form, sir— the—the fellows are relying upon me, sir—.”
Mr. Quelch looked at him, long and hard. This was his first news that Bunter
had been selected to play for his ‘Form. He did not seem to believe it.
“My—my name’s up in the cricket list in the Rag, sir!
Wharton posted it yesterday. I—I’ve been coming on a lot at cricket,
sir—ever——ever since you talked to me in your study, sir. I—I’m pretty good at
games, sir, really.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Quelch, very drily. “If that is true, Bunter, I am very glad
to hear it. I shall be glad to be able to give you at least one commendation in
your report. If you have been assiduous at games practice—.”
“Oh, yes, sir! Sticking to it like—like glue, sir! That— that’s why I’ve been
picked out to play for the form.”
“Very well, Bunter, your lines may stand over till Monday. If you are seeking
to amend your accustomed slack and lazy ways, I certainly desire to encourage
you. You may go.”
Billy Bunter rolled out of the form-room, leaving his form-master looking quite
thoughtful. This really looked like a sign of amendment in Bunter. The fat Owl
was still a trial and a tribulation to his form-master in class—but if he was
keen on cricket, and had improved to such an extent as to play for his Form,
that undoubtedly was very much in his favour. Mr. Quelch even resolved to walk
down to Little Side that afternoon and see for himself how much Bunter had
improved.
The inclusion of the name of W. G. Bunter in the cricket list had, undoubtedly,
given Bunter a “leg-up” with Quelch. But whether that good impression would
last, was, perhaps, doubtful.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE LAST STRAW!

“WHERE’s
Bunter?”
“Seen Bunter?”
“Where’s that fat Owl?”
“The wherefulness is terrific.”
“Lost, stolen, or strayed,” remarked Bob Cherry. Harry Wharton breathed hard,
and he breathed deep. Cecil Reginald Temple, the captain of the Fourth, had won
the toss, and elected to take first knock. Ten men of the Remove were ready to
go into the field. The eleventh was conspicuous by his absence. The fattest
figure at Greyfriars School was not to be discerned on the horizon.
Why, was rather a mystery. True, cricket was a form of exertion, and W. G.
Bunter did not like exertion. But there was no doubt that he did want to show
off in a cricket match on Quelch’s account. Scoring duck’s eggs, and hurling
the ball at anything other than the wicket, might not
impress Quelch with his powers as a cricketer—but, at least, he would be in the
game. That would be something, if not much. Yet Bunter had not turned up.
“Where the thump can he be?” growled Wharton.
“He can’t have had another postal-order,” remarked Johnny Bull. “If he has,
he’s in the tuck-shop.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared the Bounder. “He hasn’t had a postal-order. But Mauly had
a parcel today.”
“Oh, rot! Even that fat villain wouldn’t cut a cricket match, to snoop Mauly’s
tuck!”
“Wouldn’t he just?” grinned the Bounder. “Why, there was jam in it.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I saw it in Mauly’s study—tremendous jar of jolly old home-made jam from the
jolly old home farm! Think Bunter could resist that?”
“We might possibly beat the Fourth without Bunter’s help!” suggested Johnny
Bull, with gentle sarcasm.
“What about getting going?”
“Well, we’ll give him a chance,” said Harry. “We can field a substitute. I’ll
speak to Temple.”
Whether it was Lord Mauleverer’s tremendous jar of home-made jam, or some other
cause, Bunter did not appear: and the Remove went into the field with a
substitute in the place of that valuable recruit. Hurree Jamset Ram Singh, Tom
Brown, and Squiff bowled in turn, making hay of the Fourth Form wickets as they
were accustomed to do. The Fourth Form innings lasted fifty minutes, With an
inglorious total of thirty-six runs.
After which the question was again asked: “Where’s Bunter?” 
“It can’t be Mauly’s jam,” said Bob Cherry. “Even Bunter can’t be scoffing jam
all this time.”
“It was a seven-pound jar,” said Smithy, “but even seven pounds of jam wouldn’t
last Bunter an hour.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, he comes in at the end of the tail,” said Harry. “Lots of time for him
to turn up—if he wants to. Bother him, anyway.”
“Hallo, hallo, hallo, here’s Mauly.” Lord Mauleverer had ambled down to the
ground to see how the cricketers were getting on, and Bob hailed him as he sank
gracefully into a seat. “Missed anything from your study, Mauly?”
“Yaas.”
“Was it jam?” “Yaas.”
“Seen Bunter?” 
“Not since I kicked him about half-an-hour ago, in his study. I mean to say, I
wouldn’t mind a chap helpin’ himself, but snoopin’ the whole jar, you know—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
The Remove proceeded to take their knock. That priceless recruit was last in
the list, so there seemed ample time for him to roll down to the ground in time
for his innings.
But Bunter did not roll. The Remove innings lasted a good deal longer than
Temple and Co’s: and the score was at ninety for six wickets when Mr. Quelch
arrived on the scene.
Bob Cherry and Peter Todd were at the wickets, when he arrived. The other
batsmen, at the pavilion, capped Mr. Quelch very respectfully as he arrived,
and received a kindly smile from their form-master.
But the gimlet-eye, roving over the pavilion and the cricket-field, failed to
spot an ample form in bursting flannels.
“How is the game going, Wharton?” asked Mr. Quelch, with a kindly interest.
“Oh, good, sir. The Fourth made thirty-six in their first innings—and we’re
ninety for six wickets.”
“Very good—very good indeed,” said Mr. Quelch, benevolently, “and how has
Bunter shaped, Wharton? I was rather interested to know.”
“Oh!” Wharton stammered a little. “Bunter’s last man in, sir—he—he won’t be
wanted just yet.”
“What was he like in the field?”
“In—in the field!” stammered the captain of the Remove.
The gimlet-eye fixed on him. Quelch did not need telling that the captain of
his form was reluctant to answer questions on the subject of Bunter.
“Bunter, I suppose, was in the field, in the Fourth-form innings!” said Mr.
Quelch, quite sharply.
“Well, no, sir. We fielded a substitute.”
“Am I to understand, Wharton, that Bunter has not been here at all?”
“I—I think something—something’s delayed him, sir—!” stammered Harry.
“Will you answer my question directly, Wharton?” inquired Mr. Quelch, in his
sharpest form-room voice.
“N-n-no, sir, I—I haven’t seen him.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Quelch said no more, but his countenance was expressive. Bunter had been
excused detention because he was playing cricket—and evidently, he was not
playing cricket. The Remove master watched the game for a few minutes, and then
walked back to the House.
“Looks like a leg-up for Bunter!” remarked Johnny Bull.
“The fat slacker!” grunted Wharton. “Hallo, there goes Toddy! Man in, Squiff!”
Mr. Quelch’s brow was grim as he went into the House. He had been prepared to
revise his opinion of Bunter— Upward! Now he was revising it downward! He had
willingly let Bunter off detention to play for his form. He had been prepared
to see improvement in Bunter—he had hoped for the best! The smallest spot of
improvement would have given him satisfaction. And now—!
Where was Bunter? Was this sheer lazy slacking, or was there some adequate
explanation? Quelch was a just man. Bunter was going to have every chance.
He looked in the Rag. Skinner and Snoop were there, and they were grinning. Mr.
Quelch glanced at them.
“Can you tell me where Bunter is?” he asked.
“In his study, sir!” answered Skinner. “I saw him there a little while ago.”
“Thank you.”
Skinner and Snoop grinned at one another, as their form-master walked away. Mr.
Quelch went up to the Remove passage. Bunter, it seemed, was in his study, and
for some reason two Remove boys regarded it as funny! Mr. Quelch rustled along
the passage to No. 7.
As he reached that study, he gave quite a start. From within came a strange
sound— a sound of woe.
“Oooooo-er! Oooooogh! Oh, lor’! Oooooh.”
The door was open—no doubt Skinner had left it so when he looked in. Mr. Quelch
gazed into No. 7 Study.
“Bless my soul!” he ejaculated.
In the study armchair was stretched a rotund form. It was that of Billy Bunter.
His face was ghastly. It looked at it might have looked on a Channel steamer on
a rough day. Bunter’s fat paws, both sticky, were pressed to his extensive
waistcoat. And he groaned. He gurgled. Something, evidently, was amiss with
Bunter.
The gimlet-eye spotted what was amiss. On the study table stood an enormous jam
jar—nearly empty! Beside it lay a sticky tablespoon!
Bunter was as sticky as the jar and the spoon! Often and often was Bunter
sticky—but never in his sticky career had he looked so sticky as he did now.
“Bless my soul!” repeated Mr. Quelch. “Bunter!”
“Oh!” gasped Bunter. “Oooo-er!”
He did not rise from the armchair. He couldn’t!
“So this,” said Mr. Quelch, “is how you have been occupied, Bunter, when you
were specially excused from detention to play cricket.”
“Oooooogh!”
“You have been eating jam—!”
“Moooooooh!”
“Which I have little doubt you have purloined from some other study—.”
“Grooogh!”
“—to such an extent—such a revolting extent—that you have made yourself ill—.”
“Oooooooch!”
“Whose jam was that, Bunter?”
“Gooooh! It—it wasn’t Mauly’s, sir!” moaned Bunter. “I—I mean, he—he gave it to
me. He—he never kicked me when he found it here, sir—at least, it was only a
joke—only a—grooooogh!”
“This,” said Mr. Quelch, “decides the matter definitely, Bunter. Your report—.”
“I—I was going to—to—to play cricket, sir—I—I was only going to sample it,
sir—I—I—I’m awfully keen on cricket, sir—ooooogh——wooogh—I don’t feel very
well, sir wooooooch!”
“Your report this term will be accompanied by a letter from me, strongly
recommending your father to take you away—. This, Bunter, is the last straw!”
“Grooogh!”
“Pah!” snapped Mr. Quelch.
He stalked out of No. 7 Study. Billy Bunter hardly heeded him. Billy Bunter had
been scoffing jam, not wisely but too well. He was past caring whether he left
Greyfriars or not. He groaned and moaned, and gurgled: and when last man was
called on Little Side, he was still groaning
and moaning and gurgling!