Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (9 page)

CHAPTER XVII

QUELCH’S NARROW ESCAPE

“GOTCHER!” breathed Nosey
Jenkins.
He lashed out with the cudgel as he breathed the words. Mr. Quelch hardly knew
what was happening. The running man had drawn quite near, his footsteps making
little or no sound on the grass verge by the lane. But as he closed in with
uplifted cudgel, the Remove master heard him, and turned quickly—to meet the
vicious blow.
Nosey was taking no chances this time! Last time, he had fled yelling from the
schoolmaster’s walking-stick; and that walking-stick was under Mr. Quelch’s arm
now. Nosey could still feel twinges where it had landed on him, wielded by
Quelch’s vigorous hand. He did not want any more of the same.
Nosey had been taking his ease under the trees, higher up the lane, when he had
spotted, in the distance, the lean gentleman who had given him that
well-deserved swiping a week ago. It seemed sheer luck, to the revengeful
Nosey, to see him again, in so solitary a place. But he realised the need for
caution. He did not want to face that swiping walking-stick again. A crack on
the head from behind was Nosey’s game.
Mr. Quelch turned, as he struck—but not in time to dodge the blow. It came down
hard and heavy, cracking in the crown of his hat. Luckily the hat protected the
head from its full force: but the head received a rather unpleasant knock, and
the startled Remove master staggered, the walking-stick falling from under his
arm, to the ground.
He had no time to retrieve it. A second swipe was coming at his head, and only
by a sudden, swift backward jump did Quelch elude it.
Nosey followed him up, lashing out with the cudgel.
“You, you scoundrel !“ gasped Mr. Quelch. He recognized at once the footpad of Friardale Lane.
“Gotcher!” said Nosey, with a snarl. “My turn now, old ‘Un! You laid into a
bloke pretty ‘ard! Strike me pink and blue if I don’t crack your nut.”
Mr. Quelch was an elderly gentleman. But he was active. With his stick in his
hand, he would not have feared the ruffian in the least. But empty-handed, he
had no chance against a lashing cudgel, and he could only strive to dodge the
savage blows that Nosey rained at him.
Only by a series of swift, sudden, kangaroo-like leaps and bounds and jumps,
did the Remove master save his “nut” from being cracked, savage swipe after
swipe barely missing him, or grazing him.
But it could not have lasted long. Had there been no help at hand, the Remove
master of Greyfriars would have fared very badly.
But, all of a sudden, a bunch of cyclists swept round a bend up the lane,
coming downhill at full pelt.
Bob Cherry was in the lead, and he gave a roar as he saw what was
happening—Henry Samuel Quelch frantically dodging and winding and twisting to
escape the lashing blows from the tramp’s cudgel.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo! Here they are!” roared Bob. “Come on!”
Bob drove at his pedals, and came down the hilly lane like an arrow. Fast after
him came the other fellows.
The rush and whirr of the bicycles, and Bob’s stentorian shout, caused both
Quelch and his assailant to stare round.
“Help!” shouted Mr. Quelch, as he sighted the bunch of schoolboys on the
whizzing bikes.
“Strike me pink!” hissed Nosey.
A few more moments would have done it—Quelch would have gone down under the
lashing cudgel, with a cracked “nut”. But Nosey was quick on the uptake. As the
cyclists came whizzing down the hill, straight at him, he knew that he had not
even one moment to spare.
He gave them one glare, and then, with a single bound, disappeared from the
lane into the adjoining wood.
Quick as he was, he was only just in time: for a second later, Bob Cherry’s
bike rushed by. Bob jammed on his brakes, and jumped down, letting his machine
reel to the roadside.
“Cherry!” gasped Mr. Quelch. Quelch rather liked that happy, exuberant member
of his form: but never before had he been so glad to see Bob’s cheery face. “My
dear boy.” He panted for breath.
“Are you hurt, sir?” asked Bob, anxiously. “You’ve had a knock—.” Quelch’s hat
was a mere wreck, and had evidently had a severe jolt.
“No—yes!” gasped Mr. Quelch, He was breathless after his acrobatic dodging of
Nosey’s cudgel. “The ruffian gave me one blow—I think I have a bruise—.” He
took off the battered hat, and rubbed his head. “It is noth—next to nothing—.
Bless my soul!”
There was a whirr and a clatter as the rest of the cyclists dismounted. Mr.
Quelch gave them a very kindly look. He had a bruise on his head, and a pain in
it: but he knew very well how much worse matters would have been, but for the
timely arrival of those boys of his form.
“Wharton—Nugent—Cherry—Bull—Hurree Singh—my dear boys, I am very much obliged
to you,” said Mr. Quelch. “It was very fortunate for me that you came by. Very
fortunate indeed.”
“Shall we get after the brute, sir?” asked Harry. “He can’t be very far away
yet.”
“We’ll bag him, sir,” said Johnny Bull.
“The bagfulness will be terrific.”
“No! No! Nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Quelch, hastily. “You must not take
such risks with a desperate character, I shall telephone to the police-station
from the school, and the police will deal with him. I am only too thankful that
you came by and frightened him off. But—.” Quelch’s expression altered a
little. “Have you leave out of school bounds?”
“N-n-no, sir!” stammered Harry.
Mr. Quelch frowned.
“You are out of bounds, Wharton!”
“Ye-e-es, sir.”
“Well, in the circumstances, I must say nothing more about that,” said Mr. Quelch.
“You will return to Greyfriars at once, that is all.”
‘Yes, sir!” murmured the juniors.
“Hadn’t we better stick to you, sir, in case that hooligan turns up again?”
asked Johnny Bull.
Mr. Quelch stared at him.
“Certainly not,” he replied. Apparently the Remove master had no use for a
bodyguard of juniors during the remainder of his walk. “Please hand me my
stick, Nugent.” 
Frank Nugent picked up the walking-stick, and handed it to his form-master.
“Now please go!” said Mr. Quelch.
Now that he was on the alert, and with that big stick in his hand, Mr. Quelch
would have been pleased, rather than otherwise, to see the man with the twisted
nose turn up again. He gave the juniors a nod, and resumed his way.
They looked at one another.
“That washes out our ride up to Redclyffe!” murmured Bob. “Never mind—what’s
the odds, so long as you’re ‘appy? Come on.”
And the Famous Five remounted, and rode down the hill. Their ride out of school
bounds was washed out: but on the other hand, they certainly had saved Henry
Samuel Quelch from getting his majestic nut cracked: so they were feeling
rather pleased with themselves and things generally as they pedalled cheerfully
home to Greyfriars.

CHAPTER XVIII

ROUGH ON COKER!

“YAH!”
That elegant and polite remark greeted five fellows, as they came into the Rag.
It came from Billy Bunter.
Bunter was seated in an armchair, with a fat and satisfied expression on his
plump countenance. There was a smear of jam round his large mouth, and his
general aspect was sticky and shiny. He was eating—or rather toying with—a
peach. It was quite a nice peach, which Bunter might have been expected to
scoff in a split second. The slowness with which he was disposing of it
indicated plainly that Bunter was already loaded to the Plimsoll line. Bunter,
evidently, had been somewhere where there was tuck, and plenty of it.
Harry Wharton and Co. glanced at him.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo!” exclaimed Bob Cherry. “What’s biting you, old fat man?”
“Is the bitefulness terrific?” inquired Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
“Yah!” repeated Bunter. His fat lip curled with disdain. “You don’t know what
you’ve missed! Serve you jolly well right.”
“What have we missed?” asked Harry Wharton.
“Oh! Nothing! But if you fellows think that a fellow couldn’t manage without
your help, you can guess again,” sneered Bunter. “You funked going to Coker’s
study. Well, you’ve missed something, that’s all, so yah!”
“You fat villain, have you been raiding Coker’s hamper?” asked Frank Nugent.
“Oh, really, Bull!” Billy Bunter’s fat face registered alarm. “I say, you
fellows, don’t you get making jokes about me raiding Coker’s hamper. I don’t
want that Fifth-form fathead on my track.” He slipped the remnant of the peach
hurriedly into his pocket.
“Where did you get that, Bunter?” grinned Bob.
“From—from home,” explained Bunter. “We grow peaches, and all sorts of things,
at Bunter Court. Grapes and pineapples, and peaches, and all that. I’ll take
you fellows home some time, and show you the vast vineries and peacheries—.”
“Ha, ha. ha!”
“But don’t you get saying anything,” said Bunter, anxiously. “I shouldn’t have
gone to Coker’s study if you fellows had backed me up. You know how jolly
careful I’ve got to be with Quelch.”
“There’ll be a row, you fat ass,” said Bob. “You can’t raid prog in another
form, as you do in the Remove. If you had the sense of a bunny rabbit, you’d
steer clear of senior studies. Coker will raise Cain.”
“Coker’s raising Cain already!” chuckled Vernon-Smith. “I heard him telling the
Fifth-form men in the games-study—you can hear him a mile off. He came in and
found the hamper empty.”
“Twasn’t empty!” exclaimed Bunter, warmly. “I couldn’t get all the things into
Toddy’s cricket-bag—I had to leave a lot—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Not that I went to Coker’s study,” added Bunter. “I don’t mean that. I haven’t
been near his study. Don’t you fellows get making out that I’ve been to Coker’s
study. I don’t want Quelch after me—I’ve told you fellows I’ve got to get a
good report this term. If—if Coker asks about me—you know what a suspicious
beast he is—you can tell him I came out with you on a bike, Wharton.”
“But you didn’t!” said Harry, staring.
“Oh, really, Wharton—!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I say, you fellows, this isn’t a laughing matter. Snooping tuck was one of the
things Quelch had up against me. I’ve got to be wary with Quelch this term—you
know that. If anything happened to Coker’s hamper. I know nothing whatever
about it. I never knew he had a hamper—if he had! I daresay he hadn’t.”
“Were there jam-tarts in Coker’s hamper?” grinned Nugent.
“No: only a jam-roll—!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I mean, I don’t know what may have been in the hamper, as I never saw it. I
haven’t had jam roll today—I haven’t tasted jam for days and days—!”
“Your chivvy looks as if you have!” chuckled Bob.
“Eh! What?” Bunter passed a fat hand over a large mouth. “Oh! Am I sticky?”
“The stickiness is terrific, my esteemed sticky Bunter.”
“Oh, crikey!” said Bunter. He jerked a handkerchief, badly in need of a wash,
from his pocket, and rubbed at the stickiness. “I—I say, is it gone?” He rubbed
at a fat face, while a dozen fellows watched him and chortled.
Skinner came into the Rag.
“Bunter here?” he asked.
“Oh!” gasped Bunter. “No! I—I mean, d-d-does Quelch want me?”
“Not Quelch!” grinned Skinner. “Quelchy’s still out— he went out after class.
But I daresay he will want you when he comes in. He’s bound to hear.”
“Oh, really, Skinner! If it’s anything about a hamper, I don’t know anything
about it. I never knew there was a hamper in the House at all.”
“You’d better tell Coker that!” chortled Skinner. “He’s asking for you—I expect
he’ll be dropping in soon.”
“Oh, crumbs! I—I—I say, does—does he look in a bad temper, Skinner?”
“Sort of!” chuckled Skinner.
Billy Bunter heaved himself out of the armchair. The fat satisfied look was
gone from his face now.
“I—I say, you fellows, if—if Coker comes in, d-d-don’t tell him I’m here,” he
gasped. “I—I’ll get behind the door, and—and you fellows tell him I’ve gone to
see the Head.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the juniors, as the fat Owl rolled behind the door.
“D-don’t you tell Coker I’m here!” beseeched the fat Owl. “Tell him I’ve gone
home, Wharton. Tell him I’ve gone to a—a—fuf-fuf-funeral! I say, you fellows—”
“Here he comes!”
“Oh, crikey!”
There was a heavy tread in the passage. A burly figure and a red and wrathful
face appeared in the doorway. Horace Coker, of the Fifth Form, glared round
over a crowd of laughing faces.
“Where’s Bunter?” roared Coker. “I jolly well know it was Bunter cleared out my
hamper. Potter and Greene caught him at it this afternoon, and kicked him out
of the study. Now he’s cleared out the whole jolly lot, or nearly.
Where is he?”
“He’s left you a message,” said Bob.
“Eh! What? What message?”
“He’s gone to see the Head, and he’s gone home to a funeral.”
“You young ass! he can’t have done both!” roared Coker.
“Oh, no! You pays your money and you takes your choice,” explained Bob.
“Ha, ha, ha!”
 “I didn’t come here for silly jokes,” roared Coker. “I’ve come here for
Bunter. I want to know whether it was Bunter cleared out my hamper. If it was,
I’m going to burst him all over Greyfriars. If it wasn’t, I want to know who it
was. And if you give me any cheek I’ll jolly well smack your head. I’ve a jolly
good mind to smack it anyway.”
“You’ve got a jolly good mind?” exclaimed Bob. “Then why don’t you use it
sometimes, Coker? Blessed if I knew you had any mind at all.”
“Why, you—you—you cheeky little tick!” bawled Coker. Coker was already in a
state of towering wrath. Indeed, the wrath of Achilles, to Greece the direful spring of woes unnumbered, had not a thing on Horace Coker’s wrath. Coker was
simply yearning to smack a head—Bunter’s, for preference. But Bunter did not
seem to be present, and Bob Cherry, in Coker’s opinion, was asking for it— so
he strode at the cheery Bob and smote.
Smack!
“There!” hooted Coker. “That’ll shut you up! I’ve got a short way with fags, I
can tell you. Now, where’s—here—leggo—keep off—why, I’ll thrash the lot of
you—I— I’ll—yarooooop!”
Having smacked a Remove man’s head in the Rag, Coker of the Fifth did not seem
to expect that it would be followed by a dozen or more Removites swarming on
him and collaring him on all sides. Really, he might have!
Senior men were not allowed to throw their weight about in the Rag—the special
domain of the juniors. Smacking heads there was far beyond the limit. In a
moment, Coker of the Fifth was whirling wildly in the grasp of many hands.
Coker was big—he was powerful— he was hefty—he was rather an out-size even for the
Fifth. But he was simply nowhere among so many assailants.
Harry Wharton and Co. grasped him as one man. Smithy, Redwing, Peter Todd,
Squiff, Tom Brown, and Hazeldene added their grasp. Even Skinner lent a hand—
mindful of that kick on the landing earlier in the day. Even Lord Mauleverer
exerted himself to emerge from the easiest chair in the Rag to lend a hand in
dealing with Coker. Russell and Ogilvy, Bolsover major and Micky Desmond and
Widley, rushed to join in. There was hardly room on Horace Coker, big as he
was, for so many hands to grasp.
His arms, his legs, his ears, his hair, even his nose, were captured. Whirling
in the midst of the excited mob, Horace Coker was rushed to the doorway,
spluttering frantically.
“Chuck him out!” roared Bob Cherry.
“Urrrggh! Leggo! I’ll spiflicate you—I’ll pulverise you—I—I—I’ll———. Whoooop!”
roared Coker, as he whizzed.
Bump!
The Fifth-form man landed in the passage, with a mighty concussion. He roared
as he landed, and a roar of laughter from the crowded doorway of the Rag echoed
Coker’s roar.
“Come back and have some more, Coker.”
“The morefulness will be terrific.”
“Do come in again, Coker!”
“Waiting for you, old bean!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I say, you fellows, keep him out! I say, jump on him! Making out that a fellow
had his hamper, you know! I say, go after him and jump on him.”
Coker, spluttering, struggled to his feet. He made a berserk rush at the
crowded doorway. Many hands collared him again at once, and once more Coker
whirled, and landed in the passage with a loud concussion.
There was a rustle in the passage, and a sharp voice. The uproar from the Rag
seemed to have reached official ears—which really was not surprising. Mr.
Prout, the master of the Fifth, rustled up, his portly face wrathy.
“What—what—what is all this?” exclaimed Prout. “What is this din—this
uproar—this unparalleled disturbance? Upon my word, is that Coker?” Prout
stared at the sprawling Horace. “Goodness gracious! Is that a boy of my form—a
senior boy—a Fifth-form boy—joining in this unseemly horse-play with a crowd of
juniors—. Coker! How dare you, Coker! Are you not ashamed of yourself,
Coker?”
“Urrrggh!” gasped Coker. He sat up dizzily. “I—I— urrrggh—!”
“Go!” thundered Prout. “Get up at once, Coker, and go! I am ashamed of you!
You, a senior—a Fifth-form senior—indulging in such unruly horse-play with
juniors—pah! Go at once, Coker!”
“I—I—I——.” Coker struggled to his feet. “I—.”
 “Go!” thundered Prout.
And Coker of the Fifth went—almost foaming at the mouth.