Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (5 page)

CHAPTER IX

AWFUL!

BILLY BUNTER
stood quaking.
Mr. Quelch sat at his study table, looking across it at Bunter, with a
deeply-thoughtful frown on his face. A whole minute of silence had passed. It
was a long minute to Bunter. Like every other minute, it contained only sixty
seconds. But they seemed to crawl by on leaden feet.
Billy Bunter was not bright. He was not quick on the uptake. But he sensed
something unusual in the atmosphere. He had a feeling of deep disquiet. He did
not understand the expression on Quelch’s face. He could not guess of what the
Remove master was thinking, as he sat silent, with his gimlet-eyes almost
boring into that fat member of his form.
Bunter did not know why he had been sent for. But be had too many sins on his
fat conscience, to be able to feel easy in his mind.
Had Quelch told him to bend over, and handed out “six”, it would have been very
unpleasant, but Bunter would have understood. He had been there before, so to
speak. Had Quelch given him a “royal jaw”, it would have been disagreeable but
normal: the sort of thing that often happened. But why Quelch sat regarding him
in grim and thoughtful silence, Bunter did not know, and could
guess, and it made him very uneasy. Matters were as usual: something was going
to happen.
Only a minute—merely sixty brief seconds—but it seemed quite an age to Bunter,
before Mr. Quelch spoke at last. Even then he did not speak angrily. Somehow or
other, Bunter would have felt more assured if he had. It would have been more
natural!
“Bunter!” His voice was quiet: almost mild. “I told you, on the day you evaded
detention, that I should consider the matter—that I should consider it very
carefully. I have done so.”
Quelch paused. Bunter concluded that he had paused, like Brutus, for a reply.
So he weighed in,
“T-thank you, sir! M-mum-may I go now?”
Quelch did not reply to that question. He did not seem even to hear it. He
regarded Bunter still with that thoughtful gaze.
“I have come to the conclusion, Bunter, that you are wasting your time here—and
my time. You are lazy, idle, greedy, undutiful, slack in class and slack at
games— in no respect whatever a credit to this school.”
Bunter blinked at him.
He was quite taken by surprise. He had had, perhaps, a vague idea that Quelch
did not entertain a high opinion of him. But this was altogether too thick.
“Me, sir!” he ejaculated.
“Your stupidity,” said Mr. Quelch, “I can excuse—I can make allowance for that.
But your idleness—your slackness—your incorrigible untruthfulness—these are
faults that you could amend, if you chose. You are a disgrace to your form,
Bunter.”
“Not me, sir!” gasped Bunter. “Perhaps you’re mixing me up with some other
fellow, sir.”
“What?”
“I—I mean, perhaps you’re thinking of Wharton, sir, or Cherry—or—or Nugent—or
Toddy—!” stammered Bunter.
“That you are the most obtuse boy in the Remove, is not perhaps your fault,”
went on Mr. Quelch, regardless. “Yet you could make some effort, Bunter, if you
chose to do so. Your idleness is phenomenal. Your preparation is always
neglected—your construe invariably bad. You  are consistently inattentive in
class—you have even,” said Mr. Quelch, in a very deep voice, “gone to sleep in
class.’
“Oh, no, sir! I—I listen so much better with my eyes shut—.”
“If you compensated for slackness in class by keenness at games, some excuse
could be found for you,” said Mr. Quelch. “But you are frequently punished for
evading games practice—only last week the Head of the Games punished you for
this—.”
“I—I had a pain sir,” mumbled Bunter. “I—I told Wingate I had a touch of
plumbago, sir—.”
“Frequently,” said Mr. Quelch, “your greediness has caused you to purloin food
from other boys’ studies—.”
“If you mean the jam, sir, it wasn’t Smithy’s—and—and that cake wasn’t
Wharton’s—.”
“Lines and detentions, even canings, seem to effect no improvement.” said Mr.
Quelch. “You are incorrigible, Bunter. Greyfriars School is no place for a boy
who has proved incorrigible.”
Bunter jumped.
His eyes grew round behind his spectacles. Was the awful beast hinting at the
“sack”? They couldn’t sack a man for dodging games practice, or cutting
detention, or snooping tuck, or handing out a rotten “con”, or nodding off in
class! What did the beast mean?
Bunter felt a cold chill trickle down his spine.
He had realised that there was something unusual in the air. Was that it? His
fat knees knocked together.
“Oh!” be gasped. “I—I say, sir—oh, crikey!”
“I have lately received a letter from your father, Bunter. He expresses the
deepest dissatisfaction with your midterm report.”
“Does he, sir!” ejaculated Bunter. “I—I—I say, I—I hope it was a good report,
sir!”
“It was a very bad report, Bunter.”
Billy Bunter breathed hard through his fat little nose. He could guess that Mr.
Bunter, at home, would be made waxy by a very bad report. But whose fault was
that? It was his form-master who made out the report. Quelch seemed to be
blaming Bunter for what he had done himself!
“Mr. Bunter expresses the opinion that you seem to be deriving very little
benefit from Greyfriars,” said Mr. Quelch. “I cannot but agree with him. I have
therefore decided to advise him, very strongly, to take you away from the
school.”
“Oh, crikey!” gasped Bunter.
“I have no doubt that Mr. Bunter will act upon such advice—.”
“Oh, lor’!”
“And that the present term will be your last here—.”
“Ow!”
“You will be given one more chance, Bunter—.”
“Oh!” Bunter recovered a little.
“I advise you to listen to me very carefully, to weigh my words, and to
remember them,” said Mr. Quelch, quietly but grimly. “At the end of the present
term, your term’s report will go to your father. If it is a bad report, as
before, it will be accompanied by a letter to Mr. Bunter, expressing my views,
in the strongest terms, that it will be quite useless for you to return to
Greyfriars next term.”
“B-b-b-but——!” stuttered Bunter, “I—I don’t want to—to leave Greyfriars, sir!
I—I—I—oh, crumbs!”
“If you do not desire to leave Greyfriars, Bunter, you have time to amend your
conduct, and show such improvement as will justify me in sending your father a
good report.”
Bunter blinked at him. Quelch, apparently, saw a lot of room for improvement in
Bunter. Bunter did not see it himself. But he knew that it was futile to argue
with a beak: so he said nothing.
“I shall hope,” said Mr. Quelch, “that you will make the necessary effort,
Bunter.”
“Oh! Yes, sir!” mumbled Bunter.
“If I find,” said Mr. Quelch, “that you are careful and attentive in class,
that you are assiduous in games—if I hear nothing further of purloining food in
the studies—if, in short, you make a sincere effort to mend your ways, Bunter,
and become a credit to your form instead of a disgrace to it—in that case,
Bunter, I shall feel justified in giving you a good report. If not”—Quelch’s
voice took on a deep rumble—“if not, Bunter, when you go home at the end of the
term, you will not return here.”
“Oh!” gasped Bunter.
“The outcome,” said Mr. Quelch, “depends entirely on yourself. I shall observe
you very carefully during the remaining weeks of the term. You have ample time
and opportunity to do better than you have done hitherto. Take full advantage
of it, Bunter—otherwise you leave Greyfriars. That is all! You may now go.”
Billy Bunter almost tottered from the study.

CHAPTER X

FOR IT!

“HALLO,
hallo, hallo!”
“Here he is!”
“Where’s that cake, you fat villain?”
“Scalp him!”
“Scalp him baldheadfully!”
Five voices were in unison. Harry Wharton, Frank Nugent, Bob Cherry, Johnny
Bull and Hurree Jamset Ram Singh, all speaking at once, gathered round Billy
Bunter. They found him in the Rag: and judging by their words, and their looks,
the immediate slaughter of William George Bunter was the next item on the
programme.
Bunter did not speak. He did not stir. He just sat where he was, his ample
proportions filling the biggest armchair in the junior day-room, and blinked at
the wrathful quintette, with a dolorous blink through his big spectacles.
Perhaps he had forgotten the cake in the box-room. Much had happened since
then—to Bunter. The Famous Five remembered it—as they had come in to tea, with
healthy youthful appetites, and that cake in the parcel from Wharton Lodge had
been intended to figure as the
Pièce-de-résistance
at tea in No. 1 Study.
There was no hope of recovering that cake—indeed, an X-ray outfit would have
been required to track it. But there was solace in bumping the grub-raider of
the Remove: and Harry Wharton and Co. were prepared to roll Bunter out of the
armchair, and bump him on the day-room floor, not once but many times.
But they paused.
Something unusual in Bunter’s aspect struck them. His look was woebegone. He
blinked at them dismally, dolefully, dispiritedly. He seemed to be plunged in
the very depths of pessimism. He did not seem to realise his danger—or even to
observe that the chums of the Remove were wrathy. He just blinked at them.
“Hold on!” said Harry. “Quelch has been on his track. If the fat villain has
just had six from Quelch—!”
“Whopped?” demanded Bob Cherry.
“Eh! No!” mumbled Bunter. “Worse than that! I say, you fellows, it’s awful.”
“Sent up to the Head?” asked Frank Nugent. And wrath died out of five faces. A
fellow sent up to the Head was not a proper object for bumping or scalping.
“Worse than that!” groaned Bunter.
“Worse?” exclaimed Johnny Bull, blankly.
“Is the worsefulness terrific?” asked Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
A minute ago, the Famous Five had been prepared to collar Bunter, and reduce
him to a state of breathless wreckage. Now they gave him sympathetic looks. The
cake missing from No. 1 Study was a trifle light as air, in comparison with the
deep woe that seemed to overwhelm the unfortunate Owl.
“Not the sack, surely?” exclaimed Harry Wharton. That, so far as he knew, was
the only thing worse than being sent up to the Head.
“You’re not bunked, old fat man?” exclaimed Bob. “As bad as that?”
“Well, not quite so bad as that,” mumbled Bunter. “But it comes to the same
thing. I’ve got to leave at the end of the term, unless—.”
“Unless what?”
“Unless Quelch gets over his prejudice against me, and does me justice,” said
Bunter, dismally. “That’s not very likely, is it? I—I say, you fellows, do you
think Quelch is quite right in his head?”
“Wha-a-at!”
“Well, it sounded to me like crackers, the way he talked to me in his study,”
said Bunter. “He said I was lazy, idle, greedy, undutiful, untruthful—me, you
know! Not one of you fellows—I could understand that. But me!”
“Oh, my hat.”
“Of course, I’ve never had justice here,” said Bunter. “I don’t expect it.
You’ve never done me justice, Wharton, as captain of the form—you haven’t
played me in a single cricket match—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“But a fellow has a right to expect justice from his form-master,” said Bunter.
“I don’t get it from Quelch. He says I’m slack in class, and slack at games.”
“So you are!” said Johnny Bull.
“The slackfulness is terrific, my esteemed fat Bunter.”
“He’s going to give me a bad report, and advise my pater to take me away,”
groaned Bunter. “Fancy what you’d feel like, you fellows, if I didn’t come back
next term! Think of that!”
“Oh!” gasped the five.
“And that’s what it’s coming to, unless I can get round Quelch somehow,” said
Bunter. “I’ve been sitting here thinking it over, and—and it’s awful. I don’t
want to leave Greyfriars. Think how the fellows would miss me!”
“Oh!” gasped the five, again. Bunter really seemed to be taking their breath
away.
“And—and—and—you fellows remember once there was a spot of trouble, and the
pater thought of taking me away? Well, he said that if I left Greyfriars, he
shouldn’t think of sending me to another school but would find something for me
to do in his office. Do you realise what that means? Work!” said Bunter, in
almost a hollow voice.
The Famous Five gazed at him. They did not speak.
Perhaps they were overcome by the sense of tragedy in that awful prospect.
Bunter blinked at them sadly.
“I’m for it!” he said, “unless I can get round Quelch. I’m done for unless he
gives me a good report this term. What can a fellow do?”
“That’s an easy one,” said Johnny Bull. “A fellow could chuck up being a fat,
lazy, footling frowster!”
“Oh, really, Bull—.”
“You could chuck up dodging games,” suggested Bob Cherry.
“Oh, really, Cherry—.”
“You could do your prep, instead of frowsting in the armchair in No. 7 while
Toddy and Dutton do theirs!” suggested Frank Nugent.
“Oh. really, Nugent—.”
“You could chuck up snooping tuck in other fellows’ studies!” suggested
Wharton.
“Oh, really, Wharton—.”
“You could chuck up the execrable fibfulness, and try your hand at esteemed
veracity!” suggested Hurree Jam- set Ram Singh.
“Oh, really, Inky—.”
Billy Bunter did not seem to regard these suggestions as helpful.
He had been thinking deeply and dolorously over what Mr. Quelch had said to
him. He realised very clearly that he would have to go, if he did not placate
Quelch. But the path of reform seemed to offer him no attractions.
“Well, old fat man, if Quelch has got his back up to that extent, the best
thing you can do is to pull up your socks while there’s time!” said Bob Cherry.
“Henry is a man of his word—you can bank on that. Now what about tea, you men?”
“Come on,” said Harry. “Tea in my study—if Bunter’s left anything there.”
And the Famous Five tramped out of the Rag—followed by a dolorous blink from the
Owl of the Remove.
“Oh, lor’!” mumbled Bunter.
Skinner and Snoop and Stott came into the Rag. They glanced at the dolorous Owl
in the armchair—and then stared at him. He gave Skinner and Co. a lack-lustre
blink.
“What’s the row, fatty?” asked Skinner. “Coker caught you in his study after
his tuck?”
“Wharton been looking for his cake?” grinned Snoop.
“I—I say, you fellows, what do you think? I—I may have to leave Greyfriars,”
groaned Bunter. “You mayn’t see me here next term.”
“No such luck!” said Skinner.
“Too good to be true!” said Snoop, shaking his head.
“Too jolly good!” said Stott.
Skinner and Co. did not seem sympathetic.
The fat Owl heaved himself out of the armchair, and rolled out of the Rag,
leaving Skinner and Co. laughing. In the passage he came on Squiff, of the
Remove.
“I say, Squiff, old chap—.”
“Sorry—stony!” answered Squiff.
“I say, I’m going at the end of the term, Squiff. I shall have to leave
Greyfriars!” mumbled Bunter.
“Well, you couldn’t expect to take it with you,” said Squiff.
“Beast!”
Bunter rolled on. He grabbed Peter Todd by the arm. Peter, as his study-mate in
No. 7, was sure to be sympathetic.
“Peter, old fellow—!”
“Nothing in the study,” said Peter. “I’m going to tea in hall. So don’t waste
your old fellows on me.”
“I’m for it, Peter! What would you feel like if you never saw me in No. 7 Study
again?”
“Fine!” said Peter. And he went into hall, leaving Billy Bunter glaring after
him with a glare that almost cracked his spectacles.
It really seemed that if the catastrophe happened, and Billy Bunter had to
leave Greyfriars, there would be a lot of dry eyes when he went!