Six of the best for Bunter

Billy Bunter, the Fat Owl of the Remove, doesn’t much fancy a morning in the schoolroom at Greyfriars learning Latin, French and Maths, so he devises a lie to try to get a trip to the seaside at Folkestone. All he gets for his trouble is six of the best from form master Mr Quelch in this extract from Billy Bunter’s Bolt by Frank Richards.

CHAPTER 33

'HENRY'S late!' remarked Bob Cherry.

It was the following morning,— and a very cheery morning. The sunshine was bright: and so were the faces of the Remove fellows gathered at the door of their form-room. Shakespeare's schoolboy, with his shining morning face, could not have looked more cheery than most of the Remove.

The clouds had rolled by! Trouble in Quelch's form, which had threatened to become quite serious, was over. The happy discovery of the missing manuscript had worked the oracle! Quelch was still earnestly desirous of knowing who had abstracted it and hidden it in the chimney: but he was never likely to know: Billy Bunter, at least, fervently hoped so! But that was a matter of only secondary importance to Quelch,— the recovery of his invaluable typescript, undamaged except by a little soot, was what really mattered— and that inestimably precious typescript was now safe back in his own keeping. Extra was a thing of the past.

It was a tremendous relief to everybody. 'Extra School' had fallen on Quelch's form like a blight. They had been restive under it— more than restive. Trouble had accrued: and there had been more in the offing. Now it was 'all clear'. Even the Bounder was glad that the Remove had not, after all, 'walked out' on Quelch.

So it was a cheery crowd at the form-room door. One face, however, had a very thoughtful expression on it. That was the fat face of William George Bunter. Other fellows looked almost as if they were going to enjoy lessons with Quelch. Bunter did not.

'I say, you fellows—!' squeaked Bunter.

'Henry's late!' repeated Bob Cherry. It was several minutes past time: but Henry Samuel Quelch had not yet appeared, to let in his form.

'All the better!' remarked Smithy.

'The betterfulness is terrific,' agreed Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.

'He's on the phone,' said Nugent. 'I heard the phone ring in his study—.'

'Good egg!' said Bob. 'Let's hope that whoever it is, will keep him chinning. Jolly thoughtful of him to ring Quelch up just before class.'

'Ha, ha, ha!'

'I say, you fellows—!' squeaked Bunter again.

'Hallo, hallo, hallo! Enjoying life, now you're back at school, old fat man?' asked Bob.

'No jolly fear!' said Bunter, promptly. 'I say, you fellows, we're going to have a rotten day. Latin with Quelch, then French with Mossoo, and then maths with Lascelles! And— and I haven't done any prep!'

'Look out for squalls, then,' said Harry Wharton.

'I—I say, it's a lovely morning,' said Bunter. 'It must be jolly at Folkestone. Lovely day for the seaside. Pretty rotten sticking in form with Quelch, if a fellow could get a run across to Folkestone.'

'A fellow couldn't!' said Johnny Bull.

'Well, a fellow might!' argued Bunter. 'Suppose—.'

'Suppose what, fathead?' asked Bob.

'My Uncle Carter lives at Folkestone. Suppose he was ill—.'

'WHAT! !'

'Well my mater really was ill, you know, just as I told Quelch. Quelch knows that now, and he knows that he can take my word! Well, suppose my Uncle Carter at Folkestone was ill—.'

'Is he ill?' asked Lord Mauleverer, staring at the fat Owl.

'Eh? No! But suppose he was—.'

'You fat, footling, fabricating fibber—!' said Bob Cherry.

'Oh, really, Cherry—.'

'You blithering, blethering bandersnatch,' said Harry Wharton. 'Are you thinking of trying that game again?'

'Well, now Quelch knows how truthful I am—.'

'Truthful!' gasped Bob Cherry. 'Fan me, somebody!'

'Yes, now he knows how truthful I am, why shouldn't it work?' argued Bunter. 'I'd rather have a run across to Folkestone, than Latin with Quelch, I can jolly well tell you. I haven't done any prep, and I know I shall skew in con. I say, you fellows, now that Quelch knows how truthful I am, think he would doubt my word again?'

'He might!' chuckled Bob Cherry.

'The mightfulness is terrific.'

'Well, my mater really was ill, you know, and Quelch knows it, so why shouldn't my uncle be? I say, you fellows, if Quelch lets me off classes to-day, who's going to lend me my fare to Folkestone?'

'You fat chump!' exclaimed Harry Wharton. 'If you try pulling Quelch's leg again—.'

'Still got that onion, Bunter?' asked Bob.

'Ha, ha, ha!'

'Look here, you men,' growled Johnny Bull. 'There's a limit: and as Bunter's got nothing from Quelch for telling all those crammers, what about kicking him?'

'Jolly good idea!' said Bob. 'Turn round, Bunter!'

'Beast! I say, you fellows, who's going to lend me—?'

'Cave!' said the Bounder. 'Here comes his Nibs!'

There was silence, as Mr. Quelch appeared in the corridor: for once several minutes late for his form.

Billy Bunter blinked at him, a little uneasily. But he had made up his fat mind. It was such a lovely morning, and the Leas at Folkestone were so infinitely preferable to the form-room at Greyfriars. Latin with Quelch, French with Mossoo, maths with Lascelles— or sprawling on the sands, chewing toffee? It was worth trying on, at least. And Billy Bunter, taking his courage in both hands, as it were, squeaked at Quelch as he came up: 'If you please, sir—.'

Mr. Quelch glanced at him. His glance was not too genial. Billy Bunter's bolt had been pardoned, and so had his recent exploit in Quelch’s study: but both lingered in Quelch's mind. Neither was he pleased by a telephone-call coming through just when he was due to take his form.

'Bunter!' he rapped.

'Yes, sir! If you please, sir—.'

'I have just received a telephone message, and am desired to tell you that all is well now with your parent,' said Mr. Quelch. 'That is all, Bunter.'

'Yes, sir! But I was going to say, sir—.'

'I have said that that is all, Bunter.'

'Yes, sir. But—.'

'That will do!' snapped Mr. Quelch.

He unlocked the form-room door, and the Remove marched in. Most of the fellows were grinning. Billy Bunter did not seem to be having much luck so far.

But the fat Owl was not beaten yet. While the rest of the form went to their places, Billy Bunter stood and blinked at Mr. Quelch at his desk. A gimlet-eye turned on him sharply.

'Bunter! Go to your place.'

'Yes, sir! But, sir, I—I—I'm feeling awfully upset this morning, sir—,' stammered Bunter. 'I—I—I—.'

'I have told you, Bunter, that I have just received a message on the telephone, that you need have no anxiety whatever about your parent.'

'Oh! Yes, sir! But—but it's my uncle, sir—.'

'What?'

'My pip—pip—pip—poor old uncle, sir,—my—my Uncle Carter at Folkestone, sir. He—he—he's ill, sir—.'

'Bunter!'

'He's awfully ill, sir,' said Bunter, pathetically. 'I—I had a letter yesterday, sir—I—I'd show it to you, sir, only— only I've lost it! He—he's lying in bed, sir, and can't move hand or foot—l—.I mean, he can just move a hand to write a letter,— that's all, sir— he— he's got plumbago, sir—.'

'Upon my word!' said Mr. Quelch.

He sat at his desk staring at Bunter. That plump member of his form seemed quite to have taken his breath away.

'I— I'm awfully anxious about him, sir!' mumbled on Bunter. 'Now that he's down with plumbago, sir, and— and can't move, sir, I— I'd like to run across and see him, if—if you'd be so kind, sir, and give me leave. He—he's got pneumonics as well as plumbago sir!' added Bunter, as an extra touch of pathos. 'Mum—mum—may I have leave to go to Folkestone,

sir—?'

Still Mr. Quelch gazed at him without speaking. The Remove looked on in silence, wondering whether the thunder was going to roll.

It was!

'Bunter!' Mr. Quelch found his voice, and it came out in a gasp. 'Bunter! How dare you? You are the most untruthful boy in my form, Bunter or in all my experience!'

'Oh, really, sir. My pip—pip—poor old uncle!'

'Silence!' Quelch almost roared. 'Bunter, you will be punished for this untruthful, this fatuous, attempt to delude your form-master.'

'But—but, sir, my pip—pip—poor old Uncle Carter sir—.'

'Silence! You are not aware, Bunter, that it was Mr. Carter who telephoned to me only a few minutes ago—.'

'Eh?'

'Oh, suffering cats!' murmured Bob Cherry.

'That telephone call, Bunter, was from your Uncle, Mr. Carter, at Folkestone—.'

'Oh, crikey!'

'And now— Bunter—!'

Mr. Quelch picked up his cane, and stepped from his desk.

'Oh, lor'! I—I say, sir,—.'

'You need say no more. Bunter! You will bend over, and touch your toes!' thundered Mr. Quelch.

'I—I didn't know it was my Uncle Carter who phoned, sir, babbled Bunter. 'I—I—I mean. I—I didn't mean my Uncle Carter was ill, sir,— I mean my other uncle, sir—.'

'What?'

'That—that's what I really meant to say, sir!' gasped Bunter. 'My Uncle Tuck, sir,—. My uncle at Twickenham—.'

'Bless my soul!'

'Not my Uncle Carter at all sir,— my Uncle Tuck, sir,— my uncle at Twickelstone— I mean at Folkesham— that is, at Twickenham, sir,— my Uncle Tuck at Twickenham, sir,— he—he—he's awfully ill, and—and—and—. I—I—I hope you believe me, sir—.'

Bunter's hope was unfounded!

'Bunter!' said Mr. Quelch, in a deep, deep voice. 'Bend over and touch your toes, immediately! Not another word, Bunter! Bend over!'

'Oh,lor'! But—but I say, sir—!'

'BEND OVER!'

Stentor, of old, could hardly have spoken with more emphasis. Billy Bunter gave his form-master one blink, and bent over, in the lowest of spirits. The cane went up. It came down.

Whop!

'Wow!'

Whop!

'Whooooop!'

Whop! Whop! Whop!

'Yow— ow— ow!'

WHOP!

'Yarooooh!'

The last whop rang like a pistol-shot. Louder still rang Bunter's roar.

'Now, Bunter—!'

'Ow! wow! wow!'

'Cease these ridiculous noises this instant, Bunter—.'

'Oh, crikey!'

Billy Bunter made an effort to cease those ridiculous noises! But really it was not easy, after those six whops. 'I have caned you, Bunter,— and in addition, you will write out, one thousand times, Magna est veritas et praevalebit! Now go to your place!'

A dismal, and disconsolate Owl crawled to his place.

As the ancient poet remarked, justice, though with lagging foot, will ultimately overtake the offender! It had overtaken Billy Bunter at last! It was a dolorous Bunter that sat out the lesson: and wriggled like an eel as he sat.

'I SAY, you fellows—!'

'Anybody ill again?'

'Ha, ha, ha!'

'How's your uncle, Bunter?'

'Ha, ha, ha!'

Billy Bunter blinked reproachfully at a crowd of laughing faces. Bunter could see no cause for merriment. Bunter had had 'six'. He had a thousand lines to come! The fellows might at least. Bunter considered, have been a bit sympathetic.

But they weren't! In fact, every fellow in the Greyfriars Remove, with the single solitary exception of the fat Owl himself, took the view that Billy Bunter had had exactly what he deserved: and could indeed have done with a little more!

'I say, you fellows. I've still got a pain,' said Bunter, pathetically.

'Good!'

'Quelch laid it on—!'

'Good old Quelch!'

'He will jolly well whop me again if I don't get those lines done—.'

'More power to his elbow!'

'Beasts! I—I mean, look here, dear chaps—.'

'Ha, ha, ha!'

'Who's going to help me with those lines?' Billy Bunter blinked hopefully at the Famous Five. 'I say, it's a thousand this time! I say, suppose you fellows do a hundred and fifty each, and I'll do the other hundred and fifty—.'

'Ha, ha, ha!'

Sad to relate, nobody was willing to do Bunter's lines for him. And for days to come, Billy Bunter's leisure was occupied, not in reclining in the most comfortable armchair in the Rag, not in exploring other fellows' studies in search of tuck, but in grinding out, over and over again, Magna est veritas et praevalebit. And even Bunter began to wonder, at last, whether after all, there might not be something in it!

 

Extracted from Billy Bunter’s Bolt by Frank Richards, published by Cassell And Company Ltd. 

Picture credit: The Magnet.

For more Billy Bunter, click here

For more extracts from comics and story papers, click here

For more extracts from novels, click here

 

Traditional School Discipline

Traditionalschooldiscipline@gmail.com