Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (15 page)

BROWN’S CYCLE WORKS
COURTFIELD
KENT

To repairs of bicycle
... £1  2s. 6d.

Billy Bunter’s eyes almost
bulged through his spectacles at that letter. It was not, evidently, from
Smithy’s pater! It was not the sort of letter that was likely to contain a
remittance!
Harry Wharton laughed. He had surmised that Smithy was somehow pulling the fat
Owl’s leg, though he could not guess how. This was how! Other fellows laughed,
but Billy Bunter did not laugh. Billy Bunter gave a snort of utter disgust.
“Oh, crikey! That letter ain’t from your pater, Smithy!”
“Did you think it was?” drawled Smithy.
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Eh! Of course I did!” howled Bunter. “You didn’t say it wasn’t! Why, you
beast, I believe you knew all the time that it was from the cycle-shop!” It
dawned on Bunter why Smithy had accepted that “sporting” offer!
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Bob Cherry. “Did you, Smithy?”
“Well, sort of!” admitted Smithy. “As ‘Brown’s Cycle Works’ is printed on the
back of the envelope, I sort of guessed.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Now open your letter, Bunter!” chortled Skinner. “Roll out the wealth from Bunter Court, and go halves with Smithy.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
Billy Bunter gave an angry grunt. His fat leg had been pulled: but that was not
the worst
if,
by some miraculous chance, there happened to be a
remittance in his letter! Nobody expected it—least of all, perhaps. Bunter—but
the chance existed.
The fat Owl jammed a fat thumb into the envelope, which was his elegant way of
opening it. He drew out a letter, and unfolded it. Then he gave a startled
gasp.
“Oh, crumbs!”
“Hallo, hallo, halo!” roared Bob, “a postal-order!”
“Two!” yelled Skinner.
“Great pip!”
“The great-pipfulness is terrific!”
“Oh!” gasped Bunter. “Oh, crikey! Oh, scissors! Oh!” And his little round eyes
almost popped through his big round spectacles, as he blinked at two
postal-orders each for £1, in his fat paw!

CHAPTER XXIX

PAY UP, BUNTER!

“FAN me!” gasped Bob Cherry.
“Help!” ejaculated Peter Todd.
“What ass said the age of miracles was past?” asked Frank Nugent. “Bunter’s
postal-order has come!”
“O day worthy to be marked with a white stone!” murmured Hurree Jamset Ram
Singh.
“We’re dreaming this!” said Skinner, shaking his head. “Gratters, old fat
bean,” said Harry Wharton, laughing.
“I guess this is the bee’s knee!” said Fisher T. Fish. “I’ll tell a man, this
is the grasshopper’s whiskers!”
Billy Bunter did not heed. He gazed at those postal-orders, blankly, almost as
if he half-expected them to fade away like fairy gold.
Considering how long Billy Bunter had been expecting postal-orders, it was
rather extraordinary that he was so surprised to see them!
The Bounder chuckled. Certainly he had never dreamed that there was a
remittance in Bunter’s letter from home, when he had accepted that “sporting”
offer. Bunter had been on the make, as usual, and Smithy had pulled his
leg—that was all. But that unexpected supply of cash was the cream of the joke.
The bargain had been made—it was “halves”—and Smithy was entitled to one of
those pounds. Bunter’s little scheme had worked out in reverse!
“I—I say, you fellows, the—the pater’s sent me two quid!” gasped Bunter. “I—I
say, I never expected—I—I mean—.”
“It’s the jolly old unexpected that always happens!” chuckled Johnny Bull.
“You’ve been too jolly sporting, Bunter.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Halves!” said the Bounder, with a chuckle.
“Oh!” gasped Bunter.
“Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the juniors.
“I—I—I say, of course, it was—was all a joke, Smithy wasn’t it?” stammered
Bunter.
“Not at all!
“Oh, really, Smithy—.”
“Where does the joke come in?” asked Smithy.
“I—I—I mean—!”
“We all know what you mean!” chuckled Skinner. “Ha, ha, ha!”
“Up to you, Bunter,” grinned Peter Todd. “You shouldn’t be on the make, old
man. You’ve diddled yourself instead of Smithy.”
“Play up, Bunter!” said Bob Cherry.
“And pay up!” chortled Snoop.
“Waiting!” said Vernon-Smith.
Billy Bunter’s fat paws closed almost convulsively on the postal-orders. He had
been caught in his own toils, as he dismally realised. His sporting offer had
come home to roost!
“I—I—I say—I” he stammered.
“No need to say anything, old fat man. Just shell out.”
“Play up, old porpoise.”
“Honest Injun, you know!”
“Shell out, Bunter.”
“I—I say, you fellows, of—of course I—I’m going to shell out,” gasped Bunter,
“but—but—give a fellow a chance to read his letter—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
Evidently Bunter was trying to gain time.
Seldom was Bunter keen to read the parental communications. Generally he
skipped them. He was not deeply interested in advice to keep within his
allowance, or the reasons why Mr. Bunter could not possibly send him anything
extra.
Now, however, he concentrated on that letter from home. No doubt he hoped that
the bell for third school would come to the rescue. For—sad to relate—Billy
Bunter’s one desire at the moment was to wash out that sporting offer and its
unexpected result. Halves in a remittance for Smithy was one thing—halves in a
remittance for Bunter quite another.

Dear William,
In the course of little more than a week, I have received no fewer than four
letters from you requesting a remittance. I have already explained to you
several times that it is impossible for me to augment your allowance: and I
recommend you to save a useless expenditure on postage stamps.
As it happens, however, your Uncle George Spoke to me on the subject of a present
for your next birthday, and in the circumstances, I suggested to him that it
should take the form of cash.
I therefore enclose the sum of £2—Two Pounds—from your Uncle George, to whom
you will of course write a grateful and dutiful letter , expressing your
thanks.
Your affectionate Father,
W. S. Bunter.

Clang! clang! clang!
It was the bell for third school.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo, there’s the jolly old bell,” exclaimed Bob Cherry. “Come
on, my infants—Henry likes us to be punctual.”
“Punctuality is the procrastination of princes, as the English proverb
observes,” remarked Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
“Aren’t we going to wait and see Bunter shell out?” grinned Frank Nugent.
“My dear chap, Quelch wouldn’t like us to miss a whole lesson—!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Where are you going, Bunter?” yelled the Bounder. “Lots of time before Quelch
gets to the form-room. What’s the hurry?”
“The hurrifulness seems to be terrific.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
Billy Bunter shot away.
Seldom was Bunter prompt at the sound of the bell. Often, if not always, he was
last at the door of the form- room. Not infrequently he was late for class. Now
the sound of the bell seemed to have quite a magic effect. An arrow in its
flight was not swifter than Bunter.
“Hold on, Bunter!” shouted the Bounder. “Halves, old fat bean.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Play up, Bunter!”
“Pay up, old fat man!”
Hitherto, the only deaf fellow in the Greyfriars Remove had been Tom Dutton.
Now Billy Bunter seemed deaf also—deafer than Dutton, in fact. Dutton certainly
would have heard those shouts behind him—but Bunter did not seem to hear! He
shot on, unheeding.
A laughing crowd followed him.
Never before had Bunter been anxious to see his form-master prompt at the
form-room door. Now he would have been glad to see Mr. Quelch there, even
before the bell had ceased to ring. For once, he wanted to get into class.
But Quelch had not arrived yet. The Remove gathered at the door, as usual: and
Billy Bunter blinked uneasily at the Bounder as he came up. There was a cheery
grin on Smithy’s face.
There was no grin on Bunter’s. The fat face of the Owl of the Remove registered
dismay and alarm and despondency.
Actually, Bunter’s unexpected postal-order was in no danger. The playful Smithy
was simply pulling his fat leg: as most of the fellows guessed—excepting
Bunter. The wealthy Bounder had plenty of money of his own, and would not in
point of fact have touched the fat Owl’s postal-order with a barge-pole.
But Bunter did not guess that one! Bunter, in happy and unexpected possession
of two pounds, was in dread of losing one of them. From the bottom of his plump
heart he repented him of having made that “sporting” offer.
He had jammed those postal-orders into his pocket. He hoped that they were
going to remain there—till after third school. Then Billy Bunter was going to
make a rush for Mrs. Mimble’s shop. He eyed the Bounder uneasily, wishing that
Quelch would blow along the passage, and interrupt. For the first time in his
fat career, Bunter was eager to see Quelch. But Quelch was not due yet.
“Shell out, Bunter,” chuckled six or seven fellows.
“Oh! All right! But—I—I say, Smithy—!” stuttered Bunter. “I—I suppose it will
be all right if—if I let you have my next postal-order instead—instead of one
of these, old chap.”
“Oh, gum!” said Skinner. “Bunter’s still expecting a postal-order.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I—I expect one tomorrow, Smithy—or—or the day after at the very latest—it’s
bound to come—it’s from one of my titled relations, you know—.”
“I know!” agreed the Bounder, “but a bird in hand is worth two in the bush.
Cough it up.”
“Oh! Yes! All right! But—I say, there’s Quelch Coming—.”
“I don’t see him.”
“I—I mean, he—he will be coming in a minute. I—I’ll speak to you after third
school, Smithy—.”
“Delays are dangerous,” said the Bounder, shaking his head. “Especially in a
case like this, Bunter.”
“The dangerfulness of the delay is preposterous,” chuckled Hurree Jamset Ram
Singh. “A stitch in time is better than a cracked pitcher that goes longest to
a bird in hand.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I—I—I say—I—I’ve got to pay Coker!” gasped Bunter. “I—I’ve got to pay two
pounds, Smithy.” Bunter suddenly remembered that! “Now I’ve got two pounds,
I—I’m bound to pay up. A—a chap must pay his debts, Smithy! I—I can’t go on
owing money, Smithy! It—it’s not the sort of thing I could do! Look here, you
can have my next postal-order when it comes—.”
“I shall be getting my old-age pension by then.”
“Beast!”
“Here comes Henry!” murmured Bob Cherry. “Buck up, Bunter, if you’re going to
shell out!”
Billy Bunter did not buck up. Mr. Quelch arrived, and let in his form: and the
postal-orders were still safe in Billy Bunter’s pocket when he rolled to his
place in the form-room.

CHAPTER XXX

JUST LIKE QUELCH!

BILLY BUNTER sat in third
school with a worried wrinkle in his fat brow.
The lesson was history: but never had Bunter been less interested in the annals
of the land that he distinguished by belonging to it.
Bunter had two pounds in his pocket. They were burning a hole there. It might
have been supposed—by anyone who did not know Bunter—that a fellow who had a
pressing bill of two pounds to meet, and who had unexpectedly received that
very sum in a “tip”, would have hastened to pay that little bill, and have done
with it. That was what anyone who did not know Billy Bunter might have
supposed. But not anyone who did know that fat and fatuous youth.
Bunter had written home for money as often as he could borrow a stamp for that
purpose. He had haunted the letter-rack in hope of a remittance. He had fully
resolved that, if a remittance came, he would square that little bill, if only
for the sake of keeping Quelch quiet.
But now that the remittance had so surprisingly come, Coker’s little bill was
relegated to the back of Bunter’s fat mind. He was willing to plead it as an
excuse for not standing by his sporting offer to Smithy. But that was as far as
he was prepared to go.
His fat thoughts ran on tuck. The amount of tuck that could be obtained for two
whole quid was dazzling to the fat Owl. It was just maddening to be kept in the
form room, listening to Quelch’s drone, with two pounds in his pocket, and a
tuck-shop just across the quad.
It was no wonder that there was a worried wrinkle in his brow. He had to sit it
out in the form-room for an hour. After that, he had to dodge Smithy somehow.
Obviously, in such worrying circumstances, he could not give much attention to
English History. It was hardly to be
expected.
But Quelch did expect it. He could see that Bunter was inattentive—that in the
form-room, when he should have concentrated his mind on the lesson in hand, he
was thinking of other things. His serious warning to that member of  his form
seemed to have produced no result whatever. With a bad report—and consequent
departure from Greyfriars—hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles.
Bunter nevertheless showed quite plainly that he did not care a single,
solitary boiled bean for the priceless knowledge that Quelch was imparting to
the form.
“Wharton! What was Napoleon expecting at Waterloo?”
“The arrival of Grouchy. sir.”
“Bunter! What was Wellington expecting at Waterloo?”
No reply! Bunter, no doubt, heard his form-master’s voice—he was not asleep
this time! But he was thinking of sausage-rolls in Mrs. Mimble’s shop. It was
difficult to detach his mind suddenly from that entrancing vision, and get back
to English History.
“Do you hear me, Bunter?” inquired Mr. Quelch, in a deep rumbling voice.
“Eh! Oh! Yes, sir!” stammered Bunter, coming back to earth, as it were.
“Tell me at once what Wellington was expecting, Bunter.”
“A postal-order, sir.”
“What!” stuttered Mr. Quelch.
“Oh!” gasped Bunter. “I—I mean—I don’t mean—I—I———.” The sudden transition from
sausage-rolls to English history had rather confused Bunter’s fat mind—never,
perhaps, very clear. “I—I—I mean—I don’t mean he was expecting a postal-order,
sir—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Silence in the form!” thundered Mr. Quelch. “Bunter, what do you mean? Of
what, Bunter, were you thinking? You are not attending to the lesson, Bunter.
You are giving me no attention whatever. Tell me this instant, Bunter, of what
you were thinking?”
Even in the angriest moment, Mr. Quelch was incapable of ending a sentence with
a preposition. Wild horses could not have dragged him into asking “What were
you thinking of?”
“Oh! I—I wasn’t thinking about sausage-rolls, sir—!” stammered Bunter.
“Sausage-rolls!” repeated Mr. Quelch, dazedly.
“Yes, sir! I mean no, sir. Nothing of the kind, sir! I—I don’t care for
sausage-rolls really, and I—I certainly wasn’t thinking about Mrs. Mimble’s
sausage-rolls, sir. I—I never heard a chap say that she had a new lot in this
morning, sir, and—and I wasn’t wondering whether the fellows had scoffed them
all in break, and—and—.”
“That will do, Bunter. I doubt whether you have heard a word of what I have
been saying to the form. I doubt whether you could tell me anything whatever
about Waterloo!” thundered Mr. Quelch.
“Oh, yes, sir,” gasped Bunter, “I—I know all about Waterloo, sir. I’ve taken a
train there more than once. It’s a railway station, sir.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the Remove.
“Upon my word!” stuttered Mr. Quelch.
Billy Bunter blinked round indignantly at laughing faces.
“I say, you fellows, you needn’t cackle—I jolly well know it’s a
railway-station. I’ve got out of trains there.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Silence! Are you not aware, Bunter, that Waterloo station was named after the Battle of  Waterloo?” articulated Mr. Quelch.
“Oh! Was it, sir?”
“Now what can you tell me of the Battle of Waterloo, Bunter?
“Oh! It was—was—was a battle, sir—!”
“It was a battle?” repeated Mr. Quelch.
“Yes, sir.” Bunter seemed to feel quite confident about that!” “I—I think it’s
called the Battle of Waterloo because—because it was a—a battle, sir.”
“You—you think—.” Quelch seemed almost to moan. “Upon my word! Bunter, I am
trying to be patient with you. Tell me who commanded the British troops at the
Battle of Waterloo?”
“I—I think it was Montgomery, sir—!”
“Montgomery!” shrieked Mr. Quelch.
“I—I mean Nelson!” amended Bunter, hastily. He could see, by Quelch’s speaking
countenance, that it wasn’t Montgomery. “Nelson, sir! It was when he flew his
famous signal, sir, ‘England expects a postal-order——I—I mean, England expects every man to do his duty!’
“And—and he never smiled again!” added Bunter, drawing deeper on his stores of
historical knowledge. “He—he never smiled again, sir.”
“Grant me patience!” gasped Mr. Quelch. “Bunter, you will write out fifty
times, after class, that the Duke of Wellington commanded the British troops at
Waterloo, and  that he expected the arrival of Blucher.”
“Oh, crikey!”
 “And if you are inattentive again, Bunter, I shall cane you.” After that,
Billy Bunter tried to keep his thoughts from wandering across the quad to Mrs.
Mimble’s shop. Fifty lines was bad enough, without a whopping in addition. Whenever
Quelch was looking another way, the fat junior gave him inimical blinks through
his big spectacles, He wondered whether that endless lesson ever would be over.