Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (2 page)

CHAPTER III

JAM FOR BUNTER!

“STAND
and deliver!”
“Oh, really, Cherry—!”
“What have you got there?”
“Nothing, old chap! Nothing at all! I say, you fellows, let a fellow pass. I’m
in rather a hurry.”
But the Famous Five, of the Remove, did not let Billy Bunter pass.
They were coming upstairs, as Billy Bunter came down. They met on the middle
landing. Five fellows, in a grinning row, blocked Billy Bunter’s way to the
lower staircase. Bunter halted unwillingly—but he had to halt.
That Billy Bunter had something hidden under his jacket was a fact that leaped
to the eye. Bunter’s garments were tight. There was really hardly enough room
in them for Bunter, His ample proportions filled them almost to bursting point.
Any other fellow might have concealed something under his jacket without
catching the casual eye. Not Bunter. On Bunter’s fat person there was a bulge—a
very distinct bulge—a bulge that few could have failed to notice. Harry Wharton
and Co. had noticed it at once. That was why Bob Cherry playfully called on the
fat junior to stand and deliver.
Bunter was clearly in a hurry. Bunter’s movements generally resembled those of
a snail—a tired snail. But he had come pattering rapidly down the upper stairs,
and he came across the middle landing at a run. Only for very urgent reasons
could the fat Owl of the Remove have put on such speed. But hurried as he was,
Bunter had to stop.
“I say, you fellows, no larks!” gasped Bunter. “I— I’ve got to see Quelch. He’s
waiting to see me. Let a chap pass.”
“You’ve got to see Quelch?” repeated Harry Wharton.
“Yes, old chap—he’s waiting—.”
“How odd, we’ve just seen Quelch go out. You’ve missed him,” said the captain
of the Remove, shaking his head.
“Oh! Has Quelch gone out? I—I don’t mean Quelch! I—I mean Wingate,” stammered
Bunter. “I’ve got to see Wingate! Let a chap pass—can’t keep a Sixth-form
prefect waiting—captain of the school, too! I’ve got to get to Wingate’s
study—.”
“No good going to his study,” chuckled Frank Nugent. “Wingate’s on Big Side,
playing cricket.”
“Oh! Is he? I mean—I—I—I mean—I mean the Head! That’s what I—I meant to say.
I’ve been specially sent for to Dr. Locke’s study. I say, you fellows, I shall
get into a row if I keep the head-master waiting! You know old Locke doesn’t
like to be kept waiting—lemme pass, will you?”
And Billy Bunter made an effort to push through the row of juniors. Then he
gave a startled yelp, as the bulge under his jacket slipped. He clutched wildly
at the hidden article to save it, and crammed it back under his jacket— but not
before the other fellows had seen that it was a jam-jar.
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Bob Cherry. “Are you taking the Head a pot of jam for his
tea?”
“Oh! Yes! No! I—I————.”
“Whose is it?” asked Johnny Bull.
“Mine!” roared Bunter indignantly. “Think I’ve got somebody else’s pot of jam?
Not that this is a pot of jam I’ve got here, you know. It’s a—a bottle of ink.”
“Smithy had jam in one of his gorgeous parcels today!” remarked Bob Cherry.
“You fat brigand, that’s Smithy’s jam.”
“Tain’t!” roared Bunter. “Think I’d touch Smithy’s jam? I never knew Smithy had
jam—I never saw Gosling hand him the parcel, and never knew he had a parcel at
all, and it certainly wasn’t in his study when I looked. Besides, I haven’t
been to his study. Will you let a fellow pass? I’ve got to see Quelch—I mean
Wingate—that is, the Head—they’re waiting—I mean, he’s waiting—I mean—.”
“Hallo, hallo, hallo!” roared Bob Cherry, as another junior appeared on the
lower staircase, coming up. “This way, Smithy, old man.”
Herbert Vernon-Smith glanced up at the group on the middle landing.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Daylight raid!” answered Bob. “If you had a pot of jam in your study, you’d
better cut along and see if it’s still there.”
“What?” Smithy joined the group on the middle landing, and his eye went at once
to the bulge under Bunter’s jacket. “You fat villain! Have you been bagging my
jam?”
“No!” gasped Bunter. “I haven’t got anything under my jacket, Smithy—I mean,
it’s a bottle of ink. I’m taking it down to the Rag, to—to fill the inkpot. I
say, you fellows, let a fellow pass.”
“If you’ve bagged my plum jam—!”
“I—I haven’t, old chap! This bottle of ink is apricot jam—I—I mean, this jar of
apricot is ink bottle—I—I mean—.” Billy Bunter was getting a little mixed.
“Look here, you cut along to your study, Smithy, and you’ll see your jar of jam
on the table, just where you left it. You fellows go with him—!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I’m just taking this bottle of jam down to the Rag to fill Quelch—I—I mean,
I’m taking this jar of rag down to Quelch to see the Head—. Ow! Leggo my neck,
you beast!” howled Bunter, as the Bounder of Greyfriars grasped him. “I tell
you I haven’t got your jam. I don’t believe you had any jam. There wasn’t any
in your study when I looked, and I left it on the table, too. If you can’t take
a fellow’s word—. Leggo!”
Shake! shake! shake!
Vernon-Smith had a sinewy arm. He shook Bunter, and shook him again and again,
and the fat Owl sagged in his grasp, like a plump jelly.
Shake! shake!
“Ooooogh!” spluttered Bunter. “Leggo! I say, you fellows, make him leggo! I
say, you make him leggo, and I’ll let you have some of the jam!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
Shake! shake! shake!
Smithy, grinning, put his beef into it. The fat Owl tottered in his grasp,
gurgling for breath. There was a sudden bump, as the jar of jam slipped, at
last, from under Bunter’s jacket, and rolled on the landing. Bunter’s plunder
had been shaken out of him and was revealed, to all eyes, as a pot of plum jam.
“Looks more like jam than ink to me!” remarked Nugent.
“The jamfulness is terrific!” grinned Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. “The esteemed
and execrable Bunter has been study-raiding.”
“Ow! I haven’t!” gasped Bunter. “That’s my jam! It came from Bunter Court this morning! You leave my jam alone.”
Herbert Vernon-Smith, releasing the fat Owl, stooped to pick up his pot of jam.
Billy Bunter made a dive for it. There was a sudden crash, as two heads
suddenly met. Vernon-Smith gave a yell of anguish, and sat down suddenly on the
landing. Bunter reeled from the shock.
“Ha, ha, ha!” shrieked the Famous Five.
“Oh, scissors!” gasped the Bounder. He sat with his hand to his head, dizzy
from the crash. For a moment or two, he was
hors de combat
.
Billy Bunter did not lose that moment or two. His bullet head was harder than
Smithy’s, apparently. Perhaps there was not much in it to damage. Bunter
clutched up the disputed pot of jam, and jumped for the lower stairs. Harry
Wharton and Co. were laughing too much to stop him. Bunter went down the
staircase with leaps like a kangaroo.
“Ha, ha, ha!”
 Vernon-Smith staggered to his feet, his hand still to his head. His face was
red with wrath.
“By gum! I’ll burst him all over Greyfriars!” he gasped. And he rushed in
pursuit of the fleeing fat Owl.
“Hold on, Smithy!” gasped Harry Wharton. But the enraged Bounder did not heed.
Bunter had reached the foot of the staircase, and Smithy shot down in pursuit.
The Owl of the Remove cast one terrified blink back, and fled for his fat life.
The look on Smithy’s face was enough for Bunter.
“Oh, my hat!” gurgled Bob Cherry. “If they run into a beak or a pre., there
will be a row.”
Smithy, with his usual recklessness, was not thinking of masters or prefects.
Neither was he bothering about the jam. He just wanted to get hold of Billy
Bunter.
Bunter, on the other hand, did not want to be got hold of. He had to get away
from Smithy—and he remembered, as he careered away, that Wharton had mentioned
that Quelch had gone out. Quelch’s study, therefore, was a safe retreat—even
the reckless Bounder would not venture to pursue him into a master’s study. At
a less hectic moment, the fat Owl would have thought twice, or three times,
before he ventured into such dangerous precincts. But it was now a case of any
port in a storm—and Billy Bunter flew for Quelch’s study like a homing pigeon.
Smithy charged into Masters’ passage, just in time to hear Quelch’s study door
slam ahead of him. Mr. Prout, the master of the Fifth Form, looked out of his
study doorway, and fixed his eyes with grim disapproval on the breathless,
crimson Bounder.
“Well,” he rapped. “What do you want here, Vernon-Smith?”
Smithy backed round the corner without replying to that question. Billy Bunter
had found a safe refuge, and Vernon-Smith had to leave him to it. His only
consolation was to resolve to burst William George Bunter all over Greyfriars School when he saw him again.

CHAPTER IV

AFTER THE FEAST—!

MR. QUELCH stared, as if he could hardly believe his eyes. Indeed, at that
moment, he hardly could.
Quelch had gone out for a walk in the quad after class, as he often did. Harry
Wharton and Co. had in fact seen their form-master go out, as Wharton had
mentioned to Bunter. But he had come in again.
It was very pleasant taking the air under the shady old branches of the ancient
Greyfriars elms. It braced Quelch, after his labours in the Remove room with a
numerous and slightly troublesome form. But on Quelch’s study table lay a pile
of Form papers that had to be corrected, and Henry Samuel Quelch never forgot
his duties. So, reluctantly but dutifully, Quelch at length retraced his steps
to the House—and came to his study.
Naturally, he did not expect to find that study occupied. Least of all would he
have expected it to be occupied by a fat junior with a pot of jam. But that was
how he found it. He opened the study door, and was about to enter, when he
stopped dead, his eyes fixed on a fat figure in his armchair. Quelch’s eyes
were very keen—often compared, in his form, to gimlets. But at that moment he
really doubted their evidence.
Billy Bunter did not, for the moment, see his form- master. Bunter was busy.
Bunter had sought that safe refuge simply to escape from the wrathful Smithy.
He had judged rightly— Smithy had not ventured to pursue him there. He was
safe—till Quelch came in. Bunter was going to stay in that study as long as he
possibly could: for the double purpose of keeping out of Smithy’s way, and
giving Smithy time to cool down and get over his temper. When Quelch came in,
he was going to account for his presence there by asking Quelch a history
question, as if he had come to the study for that very purpose. That, Bunter
sagely considered, would placate Quelch. Quelch, like all beaks, liked fellows
to take an interest in their lessons: and he could not fail to be pleased if
Bunter specially desired to know whether Magna Charta was signed in the reign
of Edward the Confessor or Charles the Second!
In the meantime, there was the jam!
Sitting in Mr. Quelch’s armchair, Bunter opened that pot of jam. Unluckily he
had no spoon. Bunter liked a tablespoon when dealing with jam. But on Quelch’s
table lay an ivory paper-knife which answered the purpose fairly well. With
that implement, Billy Bunter scooped out jam and conveyed it to a large mouth:
and chunk after chunk of delicious plum jam followed the downward path. In
those ecstatic moments Bunter forgot Smithy, and even forgot Quelch. It was a
happy, sticky Bunter that cleaned out the jam-jar with the ivory paper-knife.
After he bad finished, Bunter was going to wipe that paper-knife clean on
Quelch’s blotting pad, and hide the empty jam-jar at the bottom of Quelch’s
waste-paper basket—and then wait for Quelch, with his history-question all
ready. That was the idea. It was rather unfortunate that Quelch came in before
Bunter had quite finished the jam!
There was still a spot of jam at the bottom of the jar, and it was not easy to
extract it with a paper-knife. But difficulties were only made to be overcome.
Bunter concentrated on that urgent task, blinking through his big spectacles
into the jar resting on his fat knees, and scraping industriously. He was too
absorbed to notice the faint sound of the door-handle turning. As Mr. Quelch
stood at the open door, his eyes fixed on Bunter, the Owl of the Remove did not
look up—he carried on with the important task in hand—and his little round eyes
gleamed behind his big round spectacles, as quite a substantial spot of jam was
gathered by industrious scraping.
Mr. Quelch gazed at him.
For a long, long moment, the Remove master stood quite still, gazing at that
happy member of his form. He realised that his eyes were not deceiving him.
Actually a boy of his form was seated in his armchair in his study, scraping
out a jam-jar, with a sticky paper-knife, sticky fingers, sticky face, and a
general aspect of stickiness. Quelch found his voice.
“Bunter!”
“Oh, crikey!”
Bunter jumped. In fact, he bounded. He was out of the armchair with a speed
that was marvellous, considering the weight he had to lift. The jam-jar rolled
on the hearth-rug. The sticky paper-knife dropped on the carpet. Billy Bunter
stood blinking at his form-master with his eyes almost popping with terror
through his spectacles.
“Bunter! What are you doing here?”
“Oh! I—I—I was—was waiting for you, sir!” gasped Bunter. “I—I came to ask you
a—a question, sir, about jam—I mean about history, sir—I—I forgot whether Magna
Charta was signed by Smithy—I mean King Charles the Fourth, sir, or—or Henry
the Tenth—.”
“I find you eating—I should say devouring—I find you devouring jam, in my
study!” said Mr. Quelch, in a deep rumbling voice. “Did you purloin that jam
below stairs, Bunter? I have several times received complaints from Mrs.
Kebble—.”
“Oh! No, sir! I—I had it in a parcel from home, sir! Smithy got it this
morning—I mean I got it this morning—.”
“I think I understand Bunter! You have purloined that comestible from another
Remove boy’s study, and that is why—!”
“Oh, no, sir! It wasn’t Smithy’s!” stammered Bunter. “That was all a mistake,
sir. If Smithy had any jam, it’s still in his study. I—I didn’t come here
because Smithy was after me, sir—I—I came to ask you, sir, to tell me, if
you’ll be so kind, whether Cagna Marta—I mean Magna Charta—was signed in the
reign of George the Seventh or—or—or William the Eighth, sir.”
“That will do, Bunter.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir. C-c-can I go now, sir?”
“You may not, Bunter.”
“Oh, lor’!”
 “I hardly know to deal with you, Bunter,” said Mr. Quelch, with slow, grim
thoughtfulness. “You are not only the idlest boy in my form. You are not only
the most obtuse. You are the most untruthful. You are the most unscrupulous.
You have been punished on several occasions for purloining food. Punishment
appears to have no effect. You seem no better for even a severe caning.”
“Oh, no, sir!” gasped Bunter. “Not at all, sir! Worse, I—I think, sir. I—I
d-don’t think caning does me any good, sir.”
“Once already this term, Bunter, you have been caned for taking a pie from the
pantry—.”
“That was all a mistake, sir!” groaned Bunter. “I—I never went down the kitchen
stairs at all. Mrs. Kebble thought I’d gone down, sir, just because she saw me
coming up—”
“On that occasion, Bunter, I gave you three strokes with the cane. It has not
caused you to mend your ways,” said Mr. Quelch. “I shall not give you three
strokes now, Bunter.”
“Oh! Good! I—I mean, thank you, sir, C-c-can I go now?”
“I shall give you six—!”
“Oh, crumbs!”
Mr. Quelch picked up a cane from the study table. Billy Bunter eyed that
proceeding with deep apprehension. Mr. Quelch pointed to a chair with the cane.
“Bend over that chair, Bunter.”
“I—I—I say, sir—!”
“Bend over that chair!” rapped Mr. Quelch, in a voice like unto that of the
Great Huge Bear.
“Oh, crikey!”
Billy Bunter, in the lowest spirits, bent over the chair.
He gave an anticipatory wriggle as he waited for the descending cane. But he
did not have to wait long.
Swipe!
“Yaroooooh!” roared Bunter.
Swipe!
“Oh! Oooooh!”
Swipe! swipe! swipe! 
 “Yow-ow-whoooooooooop!”
SWIPE! Mr. Quelch seemed to put extra beef in the last swipe. It fairly rang on
Bunter’s tight trousers. It cracked like a rifle-shot! Louder still sounded the
anguished yell of the hapless Owl.
“Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”
“Cease that ridiculous noise, Bunter,” snapped Mr. Quelch.
“Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”
“If you make another sound, Bunter, I shall cane you again!”
Sudden silence!
“Now leave my study,” said Mr. Quelch, “and I warn you, Bunter, to let this be
a lesson to you. I warn you that you have very nearly exhausted my patience.
Go!”
Billy Bunter went.
He suppressed his feelings till Quelch’s door closed on him. But as he went
wriggling down the passage, his anguish found voice.
“Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”
“Oh! Here you are!” Herbert Vernon-Smith was waiting for him at the corner.
“Now, you fat villain—!”
“Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”
The Bounder stared at him, dropped the foot he bad lifted, and laughed.
“You look as if you’d had enough!” he remarked.
“Yow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow !”
Bunter certainly looked as if he had had enough. He felt as if he bad had too
much! And the Bounder kindly let it go at that, and Billy Bunter wriggled on
his way Un-kicked.