Billy Bunter birchings

 Our chum Frank Richards, the creator of Billy Bunter, had a fondness for writing about corporal punishment. In their book The World of Frank Richards, W. O. Lofts and D. J. Adley remarked, ‘[Richards] was certainly not adverse to the inclusion of corporal punishment in his stories, and it was a regular practice for one of the bad hats to receive his just deserts at the end of Quelchy’s cane. And the times that Gosling hauled a boy on his back to receive a Head’s flogging are uncountable. It was firmly believed in those days that the way to a boy’s soul was through the seat of his trousers.’

Lofts and Adley are without doubt correct. Of course, Frank Richards was not the only children’s author to include cane-wielding schoolmasters in his stories, but none did it with so much relish.

And the number of birchings in his stories was indeed ‘uncountable’.

The Magnet, 1932 // No 1250

The Magnet, 1924, Issue No. 0851

The Magnet, 1921, Issue No. 0713

The Magnet, 1924, Issue No. 0851

 

In real life a school birching would be administered on the bared buttocks, but such detail was probably too much for the prudish publishers of The Magnet where many of Frank Richards’ stories first appeared. So, some degree of modesty prevailed.

Here’s an example of Frank Richards in full flow. It comes from the book Billy Bunter’s Banknote, published by Charles Skilton, London, originally in 1948. You can download the full book here.

 

Chapter XII

THE “EXECUTION”

 

IT was over!

The last sounding swish of the birch had died away through the silent Hall. From

Herbert Vernon-Smith, not a sound had come.

 

Hall was packed. Every fellow of every form was there, from Sixth-Form seniors down

to fags of the Second Form—the prefects in their places, with their canes under their

arms: the masters, with grave faces: the hapless culprit, quiet and subdued, but with a

hint of defiance in his glinting eyes. A public flogging was a rare occasion at

Greyfriars, in latter days—the hard old days were long gone when that ancient hall had

often echoed to the swishing of the birch in the hands of grim old head-masters and to

the painful howls of the victims. Greyfriars men were “whopped” when they required

the same, but “six on the bags” in a study was the usual limit. Only on very rare

occasions—very rare indeed—was there a public “execution”: with the school

assembled in the Hall, masters and boys all present, and the culprit “hoisted” in the oldfashioned way—and no doubt it was all the more impressive for that reason. The Head

had felt it his duty to make a public example of Vernon-Smith—and there were few

who did not think that, tough as it was, the Bounder was getting off cheaply. Smithy

prided himself on carrying on in reckless defiance of authority, on being a law unto

himself: and now he had come up against the inevitable result, and come up against it

hard.

 

It was a severe infliction. There was nothing of the grim old Bushy type about the

headmaster of Greyfriars: but he had his duty to do, and he did it. And kind old

gentleman as the Head seemed at happier moments, there was no doubt that he could

whop ! Skinner whispered to Snoop that he wondered where the old boy packed the

muscle, and Snoop grinned, and Billy Bunter giggled. But most of the fellows were

grave and quiet. Smithy had asked for it—and more—but it was tough, and they

sympathised.

 

But it was over at last. Gosling set Smithy down, and he stood, a little unsteadily, his

face pale. Not a sound had escaped him—the Bounder was tough all through, hard as

hickory, and he would have disdained to allow a single cry to leave his lips. But very

few fellows could have gone through that castigation in silence.

 

It was over—and the school dismissed. In silence, they crowded out of Hall. Tom

Redwing slipped his arm through Smithy’s and led him away. Some fellows would

have spoken to him—but the look on Smithy’s face did not encourage them. It was

pale, set, with eyes smouldering like live coals. Redwing led him away in silence, and

the door of No. 4 Study in the Remove closed on them.

 

“Poor old Smithy !” said Bob Cherry, in the quad. “ It’s rough luck.”

 

“The roughfulness of the luck is terrific,” said Hurree Jamset Ram Singh, dismally.

 

“Fellow shouldn’t ask for what he doesn’t want !” grunted Johnny Bull.

 

“I know that, ass ! But it’s tough all the same,” said Bob. “Smithy likes to fancy himself

a fellow who doesn’t give a boiled bean for beaks and pre’s—and he will feel this.”

 

“He, he, he !” contributed Billy Bunter. “Bet you he will! The head seemed to think he

was beating carpet! I say you fellows, I think I’ll go and ask Smithy how he feels.”

 

“Better leave him alone, you fat ass!” said Harry Wharton, “Smithy won’t be wanting

to see anybody just now.”

 

“That’s just like you, Wharton. You’re not sympathetic,” said Bunter, reprovingly. “

You haven’t got my kind heart.”

 

“I haven’t got your fat head, thank goodness. Leave Smithy alone.”

 

“Yah !” retorted Bunter. And he rolled away, to inquire how Smithy was feeling—

perhaps from kind-heartedness, but more probably from an inquisitive desire to see how

Smithy was taking it.

 

In No. 4 Study Smithy was not looking as if he wanted kind inquiries from a kindhearted

Owl. He was leaning on the study table, breathing in gasps. He had succeeded

in keeping up an aspect of iron endurance and indifference while many eyes were upon

him. But it had fallen from him now like a cloak.

 

Tom Redwing stood silent, in miserable distress. Every mutter of pain from his chum

went to his heart: and he was uneasy, too, and a little alarmed, at the evil gleam in the

Bounder’s eyes. Only too plainly he could read the fierce and savage resentment that

ran riot in the breast of the scapegrace.

 

The Bounder stirred at last, lifting a pale bitter face, and looking at him across the table.

“You think I asked for this?” he muttered, savagely.

 

“Well, old chap—!” said Tom. He paused. All Greyfriars knew that Vernon Smith had

asked for what he had received, and more: that he had deserved it, and that it might

have been worse for him. But it was not a tactful moment for saying so.

 

“Well, if I asked for it, I’ve had it!” said Vernon-Smith, between his teeth, “and others

may get what they’ve asked for, too.” His eyes burned.

 

“Smithy, old man—.”

 

“Don’t ‘Smithy old man’ me! That little beast Twiss—.”

 

“Twiss couldn’t help—.”

 

“I don’t care whether he could help it or not. He’s got me this! And the Head, too—.”

Redwing started, in real alarm.

 

“Smithy! Are you mad? What do you mean?”

 

“Never mind what I mean,” sneered the Bounder. “ You’d better not know. There are

ways of hitting back—even at the Great Panjandrum! No good askin’ you to join up in

a rag on the Big Beak.”

 

“I should jolly well say not!” exclaimed Redwing , aghast. “For goodness’ sake,

Smithy, don’t be mad. Do you want to be sacked after all?”

 

“Oh, I shall he jolly careful,” jeered Smithy. That moon-faced rabbit Twiss won’t he

wandering about in the dark next time. They won’t get anything on me—after it’s

happened.”

 

“For goodness’ sake, Smithy—.”

 

“Oh, don’t jaw,” said the Bounder savagely. “Do you think I want pi-jaw now? Leave a

fellow alone.”

 

“But—old chap—.”

 

“Oh, leave a fellow alone!” snarled Vernon-Smith.

 

He moved restlessly about the study, his brow black, his eyes burning. Tom Redwing

stood looking at him in silence for a few moments, and then quietly left the study. The

Bounder was in no mood for the company of even his best friend—his only friend at

Greyfriars. In his present temper he was as likely to quarrel with friend as with foe.

 

Redwing’s face was troubled, as he went down the Remove passage: but he hoped, and

believed, that when the effects of the flogging had worn off, Smithy would forget his

wild words.

 

The study door opened again, a few minutes later, and Skinner looked in. He was about

to enter: but as he caught the Bounder’s look, he stopped in the doorway.

 

“Feeling a bit better, old scout?” he asked. “Find out! And get out.”

 

Harold Skinner shrugged his shoulders and walked away. The Bounder kicked the door

savagely shut after him.

 

But after a few minutes more it re-opened. This time it was the fat face and big

spectacles of Billy Bunter that looked in. The fat Owl blinked curiously at the dark

scowling face that was turned on him.

 

“How are you feeling now, Smithy?” he asked, genially. “I thought I’d give you a lookin—.

Don’t feel like sitting down for a bit, what? He, he, he.”

 

“Get out!”

 

“Oh, really, Smithy! You might be civil when a fellow asks you a civil question. I

wouldn’t make a lot of fuss about it, if I were you,” said Bunter, encouragingly. “After all, what’s a licking?”

 

“What?”

 

“A fellow ought to be able to take a licking without doing a song and dance about it, old

chap! I wouldn’t! Grin and bear it, you know,” said Bunter.

 

“You fat fool!”

 

Well, that’s my advice,” said Bunter. “I wouldn’t make a fuss over a whopping. I can

take it, I hope. I’m not soft! Brace up, old chap, and What are you going to do with that

stump, Smithy? I say—leggo my collar—wharrer you think you’re up to—. Keep that

stump away—oh, crikey! Whooop!”

 

Billy Bunter roared.

 

Bunter had stated that he wouldn’t make a fuss over a whopping. But he seemed to

change his fat mind as the Bounder grabbed his collar with one hand and laid on the

stump with the other. He did make a fuss—quite a tremendous fuss—he roared, and

yelled, and howled, and spluttered: and he was still roaring, and yelling, and howling,

and spluttering, when the Bounder pitched him into the passage and slammed the study

door on him. The Remove passage echoed to sounds of woe as the fat Owl tottered

away, wishing from the bottom of his fat heart that he hadn’t paid that kind-hearted

visit to No. 4 Study.

 

 

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