Six for Vernon-Smith

“Untruthfulness is a serious matter. I shall cane you for untruthfulness, Vernon-Smith. Bend over that chair at once.” The Bounder, setting his lips, bent over the chair. – Extracted from Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School, by Frank Richards, (Armada). Available to download here.

VERNON-SMITH strolled past the door of Masters’ Common-Room, and loitered a little, with ear bent to listen.

The door of that august apartment was shut, but from many voices could be heard.

Mr. Prout’s deep boom mingled, in turn, with the squeak of Mr. Capper, master of the Fourth, the acid tones of Hacker, master of the Shell, the bleat of Twigg, the second-form master, and the mumble of Wiggins, master the Third—with an occasional shrill interjection from Monsieur Charpentier, the French master, and a still more occasional word or two in the pleasant voice of Lascelles, the games-master. All the beaks seemed to be going strong—on the subject, as Smithy gathered, of the last Master’s Meeting—no doubt an important matter to the beaks.

Which was satisfactory to Smithy, as he passed on, and turned the corner into Masters’ Studies.

Smithy was not interested in the “jaw” in Common-Room. He was only interested to ascertain that the beaks were there, and not in their studies.

Smithy was, in fact, designing a visit, of a surreptitious nature, to his own beak’s study. Quelch, he knew, was out—and he had heard Quelch mention to another beak, before he went, that he was going to Redclyffe. If Quelch was walking round to Redclyffe and back, he was not likely to materialise at Greyfriars for quite a long time yet. So far as Quelch was concerned, the coast was clear. But the wary Bounder did not want to be spotted by any other beak in the neighbourhood of Master’ Studies—considering what he had in mind.

Having ascertained that the Staff were happily occupied in wagging their chins in Common-Room, Smithy cut along to Quelch’s study without further delay, whipped in, and closed the door after him.

He grinned at a pile of Form papers on the Remove master’s table.

It was quite a large pile. And Henry Samuel Quelch, when he came in from his walk, was going to sit down to that pile, and in his unfailing dutiful way, examine every one of them.
Other beaks were not always so meticulous as Quelch in such matters. But Quelch was extremely conscientious—more so really than his form could have desired! Quelch was certain to look at every paper with a keen eye: with subsequent trouble for careless fellows who had mixed up their ablatives with their datives.

Smithy could, when he liked, turn out a really good Latin paper. But he did not always like. And he was aware that his paper, in that pile, was far from being calculated to gratify Quelch when he looked over it. His idea was that Quelch was not going to look over It.
From his pocket, Smithy drew a bottle of gum, and proceeded to extract the cork.

He had plenty of time. Quelch, on that long walk, was still miles away. Nobody had seen Smithy come to the study—nobody was going to see him leave. When Quelch found that heap of papers in a solid block—every sheet stuck to the next with gum—he would have the whole form to choose from to find the culprit.

This was Smithy’s idea of a “jape” on his beak. Incidentally, it would prevent Quelch from examining his Latin prose, and save him from the just consequences of slap-dash carelessness. He chuckled softly as he extracted the cork from the gum bottle.

As he did so, he heard the sound of a car outside the House. He did not heed it—a car did not, in his mind, connect itself with Quelch, who had gone for one of his long walks.

Smithy was, of course, quite unaware of what had happened in Redclyffe Lane: and could not possibly have guessed that Mr. Quelch, with a battered hat and a bump on his head, had been glad to pick up a taxi and get back to the school on wheels.

Not for a moment did he suspect that his form-master,  thus arriving back at Greyfriars a good hour earlier than he would otherwise have done, was stepping from a taxi, with a headache and a rather bad temper, while he was getting the cork out of the gum-bottle.
The cork came out of the bottle and the Bounder stepped to his form-master’s table. His left hand was stretched out to the pile of Form papers—his right held the gum-bottle ready to pour—when he suddenly paused. Footsteps came along the passage—and the Bounder caught his breath. He knew that tread.

“Quelch!”

He was fairly caught! For a moment, the Bounder of Greyfriars was utterly dismayed.
But Smithy was quick on the uptake.

The gum did not pour from the bottle. He was deeply thankful that not a drip had fallen. Swiftly he jammed back the cork, and the gum bottle disappeared into his pocket. At the same moment, he stepped away from the table.

He was only in time. The door opened, and Mr. Quelch walked into the study.

He crossed directly from the door towards the telephone on the table near the window. It was Mr. Quelch’s intention to ring up the police-station at Courtfield immediately, and put the law on the track of the ruffian who had attacked him in Redclyffe Lane. Not expecting anyone to be in his study, he had almost reached the telephone before he saw the Bounder standing there. He stopped, his gimlet-eyes fixed on Herbert Vernon-Smith.

“Vernon-Smith! What are you doing here?” he rapped.

His gimlet-eyes almost penetrated into Smithy.

Mr. Quelch knew that member of his form—knew him very well indeed. He hardly needed telling that the scapegrace of Greyfriars was in his study for no good motive. He was fully prepared to find gum in his inkwell, or in the seat of his armchair, or something of the kind. A grim frown gathered on his brow. There was an ache in the majestic nut where Nosey’s cudgel had cracked through his hat, and Quelch was not in his bonniest mood. Certainly he was in no mood for japes from reckless members of his form.

But the Bounder was quite cool now. His answer came glibly: “I hope you will excuse me, sir, I thought you wouldn’t mind my coming here to look out a word in your Greek lexicon, sir.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Quelch, very drily.

Smithy had no scruple whatever in “telling the tale” in dealing with beaks and prefects. Among his form-fellows he would not have lied: but with a beak he was quite unscrupulous. Unluckily for him, Quelch was quite well aware of his peculiar moral code on that subject.
But Quelch was a just man. He did not, as a matter of fact, believe a word of it, but he was not going to be hasty, even in dealing with a member of his form whose word was worth very little.

“Indeed!” he repeated. “You did not come here to play some trick in my study during my absence, Vernon- Smith?

“Oh, no, sir!” said the Bounder, innocently. “I just wanted to look out a word or two in Liddell and Scott, sir if you wouldn’t mind—.”

“I do not mind in the least, Vernon-Smith. You may tell me the words you desired to look out.”

“Oh, certainly, sir! I came on the words ‘asbestos gelos’ in a book, and thought I’d like to know what it meant.”

Quelch’s face cleared.

If Smithy was lying, he certainly had it pat. As a matter of fact, Smithy had come on those words in a book, but he had never had the slightest desire to know what they meant—till now. They had remained in his memory, and now he was making use of them, that was all. There was no doubt that Smithy had his wits about him!

“Asbestos gelos!” repeated Mr. Quelch, quite benignly.

“Very good! The phrase means ‘inextinguishable  laughter’, Vernon-Smith—it is found in Homer, and refers to the laughter of the gods on Olympus when Vulcan clumsily played cup-bearer.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” said Vernon-Smith.

“Very well, my boy: you may go.”

And Vernon-Smith went—and did not grin till he was outside Quelch’s door, with the door shut. It was, after all, easy to pull Quelch’s leg.

Mr. Quelch was left with quite a benign expression on his face. This incident looked like a sign of grace in a rather disreputable member of his form.

However, he had to telephone, and he turned towards that instrument. This brought him in sight of his fireplace, and he gave a sudden start.

Inside the fender was a flood of ink. Quelch’s eyes fixed on that inky pool with a glint in them.

Had he observed any signs of a “rag” in the study before, he certainly would not have swallowed the Bounder’s glib explanation of his presence there. But no such sign had met the gimlet-eyes—till he saw that flood of ink in the fireplace.

He breathed hard through his nose, stepped to the door, and opened it. Vernon-Smith was going down the passage, and had almost reached the corner. He stopped suddenly at a bark from behind.

“Vernon-Smith!”

 “Oh!” Smithy spun round, the grin vanishing from his face. “Yes, sir.”

“Come here at once.”

“Oh! Yes, sir.”

The Bounder bit his lip, as he walked back to the study. It looked as if he had not “got by” after all so successfully as he had supposed.

Mr. Quelch had picked up the cane from his table. The Bounder eyed it uneasily as he came back into the study.

“Vernon-Smith! You have told me that you came here to look out a word in my Greek lexicon—!”

“Yes, sir!”

“And that you had not come to play tricks in my study—.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“As I find that my inkpot has been emptied into my fender, Vernon-Smith, I cannot accept your statement.”

“Oh!” gasped Smithy.

He was quite unaware that Quelch’s inkpot had been emptied into his fender. He had not looked at the fender or the inkpot. Some ass must have been japing in the study before Smithy’s arrival there! He blinked at his form-master in dismay.

Mr. Quelch swished the cane.

“You will bend over that chair, Vernon-Smith.”

“But, sir, I—I————!” stammered the Bounder.

“I should not cane you, Vernon-Smith, for this foolish trick—I should deem an imposition of fifty lines sufficient,” said Mr. Quelch. “But untruthfulness is a much more serious matter. I shall cane you for untruthfulness, Vernon-Smith. Bend over that chair at once.”

The Bounder, setting his lips, bent over the chair. He had not upset that ink in the fender—but assuredly he had spoken untruthfully: and it was for untruthfulness that he was going to be whopped—as he deserved. The fact that he deserved it was not much comfort to him, however, as the cane in Quelch’s vigorous hand came swiping down.

Whop! whop! whop! Whop! whop! whop! It was “six” of the best!

“You may go, Vernon-Smith!” said Mr. Quelch, grimly: and the Bounder, wriggling, went.
Then Mr. Quelch laid down the cane, and sat down to the telephone, and told his news to Courtfield Police- Station. After which, he went along to the Common- Room, where the lingering ache in his majestic nut did not prevent him from taking his full share in the tide of “chin-wag” on the subject of Masters’ Meetings.

His study was vacant once more, if Smithy had thought of carrying on with his design on the Form papers. But Smithy was not thinking any longer of exploits with a gum-bottle. Smithy was in his study in the Remove, wriggling from the swipes of Quelch’s cane—not in the least inclined to give Quelch further occasion for handling that cane.

Picture credit: The Magnet.

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