Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (4 page)

CHAPTER VII

BUNTER MEETS NOSEY JENKINS!

“’OLD on, you!”
Billy Bunter gave quite a jump at that command.
He was hurrying down Friardale Lane, as fast as his little fat legs could carry
him. He had good reasons for haste. Ahead of him were the ices at Uncle
Clegg’s—behind him were Quelch and detention. Quelch must have missed him by
that time, and would be looking for him—very likely asking the prefects to look
for him. So long as he was near Greyfriars, Bunter was in dread of a calling
voice astern—perhaps Quelch’s, or perhaps Wingate’s or Loder’s or Gwynne’s. So,
still following the energetic example of the river Iser, he rolled rapidly.
Danger behind Bunter dreaded—but danger ahead never occurred to him—till he
heard that sharp, unpleasant voice. He was nearly half-way to the village, in a
spot where the overhanging branches of the trees on either side of the lane
almost met overhead—a dusky, shady, solitary spot. In the dusk of the branches
Bunter did not notice a man who was leaning against a gnarled tree-trunk,
chewing the stem of an empty black pipe.
But the man noticed Bunter, eyed him with sharp, red-rimmed eyes as he came up
and, as he drew abreast, Stepped into his path, and bade him “’old on.”
“Oh!” gasped Bunter, startled.
He held on—he could not continue on his way without walking over the man. And
the man looked rather alarming. He was not well-dressed—he wore a ragged coat
too large for him, shabby trousers too small for him, a battered bowler that
only a very impecunious tramp would have picked up off a rubbish-heap, and a
blue spotted neck cloth. His chin was adorned by a three-days beard: and the
rest of his countenance looked seriously in need of a wash. He had little
red-rimmed eyes, with an unpleasant threatening glint in them, and his nose had
a queer twist sideways as if it had had a hard knock at some time from a very
vigorous fist, and had never been able to get its bearings since.
Altogether, he looked a very unpleasant customer, and rather alarming to meet
in a lonely, shady spot.
Billy Bunter blinked at him, and backed away a pace. The man with the twisted
face followed him up.
“’Old on!” he repeated. He had a short, thick stick under one arm, and he let
it slip down into his hand, and, to Bunter’s dismay and terror, gave it a
flourish in the air. “’Old on, you fat covey! You ’ear me?”
“Oh! Yes!” gasped Bunter. “I—I say, I—I’m in rather a hurry—.” 
“So’m I,” answered the man with the twisted nose. “’And it over.”
“Eh! Hand what over?” asked Bunter.
“All you’ve got in your pockets—and sharp!” snapped the tramp, with another
flourish of the stick.
Billy Bunter blinked at him in horror. It was borne in upon his fat mind that
this ugly customer was a footpad, taking advantage of that chance meeting in a
solitary spot screened from general observation.
“I—I—I say, I—I haven’t any money!” stammered Bunter. “I—I’ve been disappointed
about a postal-order, and—and—Yaroooh!”
The vagrant cast a swift glance up and down the lane. Solitary as it was,
someone might have come along from either direction at any moment. The winding
lane was full of turns, and someone might have been within thirty yards, for
all Nosey Jenkins knew. He had no time to waste on Bunter. He closed in on the
fat schoolboy, and grasped a fat shoulder with his left hand, flourishing the
cudgel with his right, Bunter uttering a startled yelp as he was seized.
 “Now, then, sharp’s the word!” he snarled. “If you don’t want your silly ’ead
cracked, ’and it over.”
“I—I—I say, I—I—Yooo-hooop!” roared Bunter, as Nosey Jenkins gave him a smart
tap on his fat head with the cudgel, as a warning of what was to come if he did
not “’and it over”. “Ow! Leggo! Help! Yaroooh!”
The next moment Bunter was sprawling on his back in the dust, and Nosey
Jenkins, with his stick under his arm again, was groping through his pockets.
“Oooooooogh!” spluttered the fat Owl. “Ow! Oh! Help!”
“’Old your row, will you?” snapped Nosey Jenkins, in so ferocious a tone that
Bunter gasped into silence.
Thievish hands ran through his pockets as he sprawled dizzily in the dust.
Perhaps Mr. Jenkins expected a Greyfriars fellow to be liberally supplied with
cash. No doubt he would have been richly rewarded for his trouble had his victim
been Herbert Vernon-Smith or Lord Mauleverer or Monty Newland. But if he
expected to make a good thing out of Billy Bunter, he was disappointed. Billy
Bunter’s financial resources were limited to Mauly’s half-crown—for which it
was really hardly worth Mr. Jenkins’ while to risk three months in the “stone
jug”. Having found, and annexed, Mauly’s half-crown, Nosey proceeded through
Bunter’s other pockets, in the hope of unearthing further plunder—a delusive
hope. And as he groped and searched, a tall, angular figure came rapidly round
a turn of the winding lane from the direction of Greyfriars School.
Mr. Quelch’s long legs were going strong.
Had not Bunter put on unaccustomed speed his form-master certainly would have
overtaken him much nearer the school. Quelch covered the ground fast—and his
expressive face grew grimmer and grimmer as he did so. He expected to sight a
fat back at every wind of the lane—and now, suddenly he sighted Bunter, in
rather unexpected circumstances—sprawling and spluttering in the dust, with a
tough-looking tramp bending over him and going through his pockets!
Mr. Quelch gave that scene one startled look—then his rapid walk broke into a
more rapid run. He was on the scene in a twinkling.
Nosey Jenkins, as he heard a rapid patter of footsteps, jumped up from Bunter,
and grasped his cudgel, glaring round. As he did so, Mr. Quelch’s Walking-stick
came into play.
Crack!
It was a long, thick, heavy walking-stick, and it was wielded in a very sinewy
hand. It cracked on Mr. Jenkins’ battered bowler like a rifle-shot. That hat,
already almost a ruin, became a complete wreck. What remained of it was crushed
on Nosey Jenkins’ bullet head, and that bullet head rang and sang from the
smite of the walking-stick. The yell that came from Nosey woke all the echoes
of Friardale Lane and the fields and meadows adjoining.
“You scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Quelch. 
“Strike me pink!” gasped Nosey, jumping back from another swipe of the
walking-stick. “Oh, ’oly smoke! Oooooh!”
Mr. Quelch followed him up, still swiping. Nosey grasped his cudgel, but a
swipe across his arm caused him to drop it, with a howl of anguish. Another
swipe landed on his ear—another on his already damaged head.
It was too much for Nosey! He fairly turned tail and ran for it, having had
enough. Mr. Quelch, perhaps not realising that Nosey had had enough, rushed
after him, still swiping with the walking-stick twice and thrice it raised
clouds of dust from Nosey’s tattered coat, before that hapless footpad fled for
his life.
Then Mr. Quelch, with an angry sniff, turned back to Bunter.
That fat youth was sitting up dizzily in the dust, blinking at his form-master.
“Oh, crikey!” gasped Bunter.
Nosey had terrified the Owl of the Remove. But his form-master seemed to
terrify him still more. As he saw the expression on Quelch’s face, the fat Owl
would almost have preferred Nosey, of the two. He tottered to his feet, eyeing
the Remove master with deep apprehension.
“Bunter!” Quelch’s voice was like suppressed thunder, “I—I forgot—!” began
Bunter. “If—if you please, sir “I—I forgot—.”
“Return to the school this instant, Bunter.”
“Oh! Yes, sir!” groaned Bunter.
It was a dispirited fat Owl that trudged back to Greyfriars. Uncle Clegg’s ices
were gone from his gaze, like a beautiful dream: Mauly’s half-crown was in one
of Nosey Jenkins’ tattered pockets, and had disappeared with the tramp. All
that remained to Billy Bunter was detention—and deponent verbs!
Mr. Quelch did not speak a word more till they arrived at the school, and the
fat Owl rolled dismally into the Remove form-room. His feelings were, if
possible, a little more dismal, when Quelch placed his detention paper on the
desk before him. It was, as Bunter had fully expected, a “stinker”. But, to his
surprise and relief, Quelch did not pick up his cane. He stood regarding Bunter
with a grim, but very thoughtful brow.
“I hardly know how to deal with you, Bunter,” said Mr. Quelch at last. “I shall
consider the matter. I shall consider it very carefully. In the meantime, I
warn you that if you leave this form-room before your task is completed, you
will be reported to your head-master for a flogging,”
“Oh!” gasped Bunter.
With that, Mr. Quelch left him to it. Billy Bunter cast a ferocious blink at
the door as it closed on his form-master.
“Beast!” he breathed.
And the fat Owl, in the lowest of spirits, concentrated on those exasperating
verbs which are passive in form but active in meaning.

CHAPTER VIII

WHERE IS BUNTER?

ANYBODY seen Bunter?”
Harry Wharton was asking that question up and down and round about. He was not
looking—or feeling—very patient. After class, a Greyfriars man had plenty to
do, without wasting his valuable time looking for a fat Owl who was not to be
found. But Mr. Quelch had requested his Head Boy to send Bunter to his study,
so there was no choice in the matter for Harry Wharton. He had to find Bunter.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo! Want Bunter?” asked Bob Cherry, as the captain of the
Remove looked into the Rag and propounded his query.
“No fear! Quelch does!” growled Wharton. “I can’t find the fat ass———.”
“Looked in the tuck-shop?” asked Frank Nugent, laughing.
“Of course: I looked there first. He’s not there.” 
 “Looked in your study?” asked Vernon-Smith. “Eh! Why should I look in my study
for him?” “Because you had a parcel from home this morning.” 
 “Oh!” ejaculated Harry: and there was a chuckle from the fellows in the Rag,
as the captain of the Remove turned away.
On the way upstairs he encountered Skinner.
“Seen Bunter, Skinner?”
“Bunter? Yes.”
“Oh, good: thank goodness somebody’s seen him. Where is he?”
“Blessed if I know,” answered Harold Skinner, shaking his head.
“I suppose you know where he is if you’ve seen him!” exclaimed Wharton, in
exasperation. “Where did you see him?”
“In class this afternoon,” explained Skinner. “Haven’t seen him since. Sorry.”
And Skinner went on downstairs, grinning.
“You silly ass!” roared Wharton. Really, he had no time for Harold Skinner’s
little jokes. He tramped up to the Remove landing, where he found several Remove
fellows.
“Seen Bunter?”
“Too often,” answered Tom Brown.
“Oh, don’t be an ass! I’ve got to root him out for Quelch. Has anybody seen
that fat chump trickling about?” 
 “He came up to the studies after class,” said Squiff. “Haven’t seen him go down.”
Wharton tramped on into the Remove passage. He looked into No. 1 Study—mindful
of the Bounder’s suggestion. But that study was empty: and he tramped on to No.
7, which Billy Bunter shared with Peter Todd and Tom Dutton. He hurled open the
door of No. 7 and looked in.
“Bunter here?” 
Only one of the three proprietors of No. 7 Study was visible. Tom Dutton was
there, and he looked round and nodded. Tom Dutton was afflicted with
deafness—which was perhaps not wholly an affliction for a study-mate of Billy
Bunter’s. He missed a great deal of Bunter’s conversation.
“Hear?” he repeated. “Yes, I can hear you. I’m not so deaf as the fellows make
out. A trifle hard of hearing, that’s all. What do you want?”
“I asked you if that fat Owl was here.”
“No need to howl to make me hear,” answered Dutton, testily. “I can hear you
all right. Looking for Toddy? He’s gone down, I think.”
“I’m looking for Bunter. Quelch wants him in his study.”
“How did that happen?” asked Dutton, staring. “Eh?”
“I mean, he might have got dusty, but I don’t see how could get muddy, in this
dry weather. Fallen into a ditch, do you mean?” 
“Oh! No!” gasped Wharton. “I’ve got to send Bunter to Quelch—.”
“Rot!” said Dutton. “Bunter’s not Welsh. First I’ve card of it, if be is. How
did he get muddy?”
“Quelch wants him in his study,” shrieked Wharton.
“That’s bosh. There’s no mud in his study—this is Bunter’s study, and there’s
no mud here. What do you mean? Anyhow, if he’s muddy, I suppose he’s got a
clothes-brush? Is that what you’ve come for? I’ve got one if he wants it.”
“Do you know where Bunter’s got to?” howled Wharton.
“If he’s got two, he doesn’t want mine, then. Blessed if I see what he’s got
two clothes-brushes for. You haven’t told me yet how he got muddy.”
“Do you know where Bunter is now?” roared Wharton. This time Dutton got it.
“No, I don’t, and don’t want to. And you needn’t yell at me, either. I’m not
deaf,” said Dutton, warmly. “No need to shout. Look here, does Bunter want to
borrow my clothes-brush or not?”
Harry Wharton did not answer that question. He chuckled, and departed from No.
7 Study, leaving Tom Dutton somewhat perplexed.
His next call was at No. 12 Study, which belonged to Lord Mauleverer. Mauly’s
study was generally a land flowing with milk and honey, and a likely cover to
draw for Billy Bunter. His lordship, reclining gracefully on his study sofa,
gave the captain of the Remove an inquiring glance as he looked in.
“Has a blithering, blethering, blathering idiot been here, Mauly?”
“Only you, old chap—”
“What?”
“I mean, nobody but you—.”
“Fathead!”
The door banged, and Harry Wharton stared up and down the passage. It was
probable that Mr. Quelch was losing patience, by that time—Harry Wharton
certainly was. Fisher T. Fish looked out of No. 14 Study, and grinned at his
exasperated face.
“Say, bo, what’s biting you?” be asked.
“Seen anything of Bunter?” asked Harry.
“Yep!”
“Know where he is?”
“Sure!”
“Well, where is he, then?” demanded the captain of the Remove.
“I guess I saw him levanting up to the box-room. Anything of yourn in the bag
that fat guy had under his arm?” grinned Fisher T. Fish.
“The fat scoundrel!” gasped Wharton. He cut along to the box-room stair, and
mounted two at a time, followed by a chuckle from Fisher T. Fish.
The box-room did not open to his touch. Evidently it was locked on the inside.
Wharton banged on it, and there was a startled gasp within.
“Bunter You fat villain!” roared Wharton.
“Oh! I—I’m not here—”
“Open this door, you blithering bandersnatch.”
“I—I can’t! I—I’ve lost the key! I say, old chap, it’s not your cake. I’d let
you in, if I could, just to let you see that it’s not your cake.”
“You’ve bagged the cake out of my parcel?” roared Wharton.
“Nothing of the kind. I never knew you had a parcel, and I certainly didn’t
know there was a cake in it. If it’s gone, I expect Nugent had it.”
“You fat brigand. Quelch wants you.”
“He, he, he!”
“Quelch told me to send you to his study at once.”
“He, he, he!”
“You fat chump, what are you cackling at? Nothing funny in Quelch sending for
you, is there?”
“He, he be! You can’t pull my leg,” chuckled Bunter. “I’m not opening that
door. I haven’t finished the cake—I mean, I’ve lost the key—.”
“If you keep Quelch waiting any longer, he will very likely come and look for
you—.”
“He, he, he!” cachinnated Bunter. “You can’t fool me, chap! I wasn’t born
yesterday, Wharton! He, he, he!”
“Oh, you bowling ass!” gasped Harry. Bunter evidently had retired to the safe
seclusion of the box-room to devour the cake from No. 1 Study, sagely locking
the door before he started on it. He was not going to unlock that door, with
the owner of the cake on the landing outside—not before the cake was finished,
at any rate. And he was not to be deluded into unlocking the door, by a yarn that
Quelch had sent for him. Not Bunter!
Wharton thumped on the door again.
“I tell you Quelch wants you!” he roared.
“He, he, he! Keep it up!” chuckled Bunter.
“You fat lunatic, I tell you Quelch—!”
“He, he, he!”
“Wharton!” It was a bark from the foot of the short box-room stair. Harry
Wharton gave a jump, and spun round in dismay. He looked down the stair at a
lean, angular figure and a darkly-frowning face.
“Oh!” gasped Harry. It was more than twenty minutes since Mr. Quelch had
requested him to send Bunter to his study. Evidently Quelch had lost patience,
and taken the matter in hand himself. Equally evidently, he had heard Wharton’s
voice, shouting through the box-room door.
“Is Bunter in the box-room, Wharton?”
“I—I—I think—!” stammered Harry.
The Remove master rustled up the stair. One grim look dismissed Wharton from
the spot. Harry went down to the Remove passage, wondering what was going to
happen to Bunter now.
Mr. Quelch turned the door-handle. Then he rapped on the door. From within came
a cheery fat voice:
“That you, you silly ass? Look here, I’m not unlocking the door—I keep on
telling you I’ve lost the key. You can’t pull my leg about old Quelch! Old
Quelch can go and eat coke! Fat lot I care for old Quelch!”
“Bunter!”
“Oh, crikey!”
“Open this door at once, Bunter.”
“Oh, scissors!”
The key turned in the lock. The door opened. A fat Owl blinked at the Remove
master, with his little round eyes almost popping through his big round
spectacles. There was a wedge of cake in Bunter’s fat hand—a chunk of cake on a
box-lid—and a sea of crumbs on the floor. It was—or had been—a luscious cake,
and Bunter had been enjoying life. But he was not enjoying life now. His look,
as he blinked at his form-master, expressed anything but enjoyment.
“Bunter! Follow me to my study.”
“Oh, jimmy!”
Bunter followed.