Extract: Coker Comes a Cropper

Let us return to the hallowed walls of Greyfriars and witness another boy take his place over a chair.

This Billy Bunter story from the Magnet in 1929 (edition 1129) concerns Horace Coker ‘the fool of the Fifth’. He tries to stop a group of boys playing football inside the school building. Then by a mishap Coker kicks the ball and it hits the fifth-form master Mr Prout. Prout thinks this was done deliberately and takes Coker to the headmaster.

Later Coker tries to take revenge on Prout.

The full story is on the Friardale website here.

THE THIRD CHAPTER.

“Bend Over!”

“SIR!”
  Prout’s voice trembled in spite of himself.
  Dr. Locke suppressed a sigh.
 The Head’s study looked very cheery and cosy.  Rain pattered on the windows outside, and a sea-mist rolled over the quadrangle of Greyfriars.  But within a bright log fire burned with a ruddy glow; a shaded electric lamp cast illumination upon the pages of a ponderous volume, and the Head was enjoying a quiet hour with Sophocles— which was the Head’s idea of enjoyment.
  He came back from Thebes with quite a jump, as the Fifth Form master presented himself in the study doorway.
  “Sir!” said Mr. Prout.
  “Pray come in,” said the Head courteously, his eyes resting rather curiously on a football that Prout carried under his arm, and then on Horace Coker, who followed his Form master in, very untidy and flushed.
 First Mr. Prout rolled in ponderously. Greyfriars had been built in the days when builders were builders; but the study floor creaked a little under Mr. Prout’s tread.
  Time had been when Mr. Prout had weighed only twelve stone, and could have been measured round the waist with an ordinary yard measure. In those far-off days Prout had been an active man, and, like Nimrod, a mighty hunter. He told stories in Common-room—over and over again, unfortunately—of his exploits in those ancient days. Horns and antlers, bear-skins and buffalo skins, adorned Prout’s study; and to each one hung a tale, told and re-told by Prout with great satisfaction to himself.
  But those days were long past. Since those days Prout had found, with every passing year, more and more difficulty in buttoning his waistcoat, Perpendicularly, Prout was not impressive; but his diameter and circumference were imposing. His Form—not in his hearing, of course—likened him to the “earth-shaking beast” mentioned by Macaulay.
  Certainly, Mr. Prout was not of an age, or a physique, to roll down the Remove staircase with impunity.
  All over Mr. Prout were distributed aches and pains, too numerous to count; he had been severely shaken up, from head to foot—and the damage, therefore, was extensive, for there was an enormous amount of Prout between his head and his feet..
He rolled in ponderously, and sank with a gasp into the chair indicated by the Head.
  “What has happened?” asked the Head.
  It was obvious that something had happened.
  Prout pointed to Coker. Apparently he meant to imply that Coker had happened.
  The Head glanced at Coker.
  “An accident, sir—” began Horace.
  “This boy, sir,” said Mr. Prout—” this—this unruly, this disrespectful and rebellious boy, sir, has caused me to fall downstairs—”
 “Mr Prout!”
  “By hurling a football at me, sir—”
  “Bless my soul!”
  “This football, sir!” said Mr. Prout.  “I have brought it here, sir.  ”
 “I never—” began Coker.
 “I place the matter in your hands, sir.  ” said Mr. Prout.  “I confess that this boy is beyond me!”
  Dr. Locke bent a severe glance upon Horace Coker,
 “Explain yourself!” he said.
 “It was an accident, sir!” said Coker. “A sheer accident! Some juniors were kicking up a shindy—”
  “What?”
  “I mean, making a disturbance, sir, and I went to stop them. I took away their footer, and threw it down the stairs.  I hadn’t the faintest idea that Mr. Prout was coming nosing—”
  “What?”
  “I mean, that Mr. Prout was coming to see what was up, sir.  I saw him the moment I had chucked the footer!  I couldn’t help it, sir.”
  The Head’s glance travelled to Prout.
  “You do not suppose, sir, that Coker made this—this assault upon you deliberately and intentionally?” he asked.
  “At first, sir, I had no doubt of it.” said Mr. Prout. “But on reflection, sir, I think it probable that Coker, as he says, was only acting with his usual incredible stupidity and obtuseness !”
  “Such an action, if intentional, would cause the offender to be immediately expelled from Greyfriars!” said the Head, in a deep voice. “But it appears that it was an accident, caused by Coker having taken it upon himself to interfere with Lower boys, and by his unthinking stupidity in hurling a football down a staircase.”
 “Really, sir—” began Coker.
  “Were you requested by a master to intervene among the juniors, Coker?”
  “Oh, no, sir!”
  “Or by a prefect?”
  “Not at all, sir. I did it quite on my own.” explained Coker. “I’m not satisfied with the way the prefects keep the fags in order, sir.”
  “Indeed!” said the Head.
 “I’ve a short way with fags myself,” added Coker. “I think they need a strong hand, I hope you agree with me, sir.”
  Dr. Locke rose to his feet.
  “Coker, you need say no more! It is against all my inclinations, and against the traditions of the school, for a senior boy to be caned. But—”
  “Of course, you will not cane me, sir?” said Coker in astonishment. “The Fifth are never caned.”
  “I shall leave that to Mr. Prout to decide. 1 shall inflict whatever punishment Mr. Prout may demand.”
  “But, sir—” gasped Coker.
  “It is for you to speak, Mr. Prout!” said the Head. “As you appear convinced that Coker had no actual intention of assaulting you, no doubt you will not demand his expulsion. If you think that detention and a heavy imposition will meet the case— ”
  “I do not, sir “ gasped Mr. Prout.
  “Coker has frequently been detained, and frequently given impositions, but it has made no difference to his obstreperous unruliness or to hs unspeakable stupidity. 1 think, sir that chastisement is the only course.”
  “I agree with you.” said the Head.
  He glanced about the room. Coker realised that he was looking for his cane.
  Coker backed away a pace, breathing hard and deep.
  “Dr. Locke! You—”
  “You need not speak, Coker!  Mr. Prout demands that your punishment should be exemplary, and I fully endorse Mr. Prout’s view.”
  “You’re not going to cane me, sir!” stuttered Coker.
  “I most certainly am!” said the Head, with emphasis.
  “But it isn’t done, sir!” gasped Coker.  The Fifth ain’t caned, sir! Why, I shall be chipped by all the fags in the school if it comes out that I’ve been caned! It—it’s really impossible, sir!”
  “That will do, Coker.”
  “But I’m bound to point out, sir, that it won’t do!” insisted Coker. “Seniors can’t be caned! It isn’t done.” Licking
  “Silence!”
  Dr. Locke found his cane and picked it up. Coker eyed it with something like horror.  It was not the licking he cared about—Coker was tough. It was the indignity! He could picture how the Fifth Form men would chip him in the games study. He could envisage the merriment of the juniors The Fifth never were caned! Mr. Prout himself would have been the first to point out that such a mode of punishment impaired the dignity of both the Form master and the Form; That strict rule was to be departed from, in the case of Coker—positively for one occasion only, as it were! Coker understood quite clearly that it would not do. Unfortunately, the Head did not seem to understand.
  The Head pointed to a chair with the cane. Coker glanced at the chair, but did not approach it.
  “Bend over that chair, Coker!” said the Head.
  “It’s impossible, sir—” said Coker. 
  “Coker!”
  “The Fifth ain’t caned, sir!” almost wailed Coker.
  “When the Fifth act like unruly juniors they must expect the punishment of unruly juniors” said the Head. Fortunately, you are the only boy in the Fifth Form ever likely to call for such punishment. Bend over that chair!”
  Coker turned despairingly to his Form master.
  “Mr. Prout—”
  “You need not address me, sir!” boomed Prout.  “Your punishment is light! You deserve a flogging with a birch.”
  “If you’d put in a word for me, sir—” gasped Coker.
  “Silence!”
  “A fellow expects his Form master to stand by him, sir!” exclaimed Coker indignantly. “I’m bound to say, sir, that you ought not to let me down because of a little accident—”
  “I repeat, silence!”
  “But, sir—”
  “I have told you, Coker,” said the Head in an ominous voice, “to bend over that chair!” If you do not immediately obey my command I shall expel you from the school, and you will leave Greyfriars to-day.”
  “Oh!” gasped Coker.
  “He gave Mr. Prout one more despairing glance. Prout’s face was like adamant. At any other time, no doubt, Prout would have realised that the dignity of his Form and of his important self were involved in this matter.  He might have remembered that there would be smiles—sly smiles— in Masters’ Common-room, when it came out that a Fifth Form man had been caned like a Lower boy. But Prout was not in the mood to reflect on  that.  Aches and pains covered him like a garment; and “six” was the very lightest punishment that would have satisfied him in Coker’s case. Indeed, he would have demanded a flogging had he been sure that the Head would not have jibbed, so to speak.
  So he fixed a ruthless stare on Coker; and the hapless Horace, realising that all was up, turned to the chair, at which the Head’s cane was still pointing like the finger of Fate.
  S1owly, slowly but surely, Coker bent over the chair!
  He reached, at last, the attitude suitable for the punishment that was to be handed out.
  Then the head weighed in.
  Whack!
  “Oh!” gasped Coker.
  Whack, whack, whack!
  It seemed lake a horrid dream to Coker. He was bending over, he was being whacked, like some fag of the Third Form!  He told himself that it couldn’t be real!
  But it was real—horribly real. The Head was an old gentleman, and his athletic days were over.  But there was a lot of punch left in his right arm. Some of it, no doubt, was due to practice. At all events, the whacks came down with a vim that convinced Coker that this was real.
  Whack, whack!
  Six was the number. The Head laid down the cane.
  Coker staggered up.
  “You may go!” said the Head majestically. “If there should be any recurrence of your foolish and disorderly conduct, Coker, I shall have to consider whether you may be permitted to remain at Greyfriars. For the present, you may go!”
  And Coker went!

 

THE TENTH CHAPTER.

Not as Per Programme!

Prout sat in his armchair, in his study, taking his ease.
  It was a large, easy-chair, but Prout’s ample bulk filled it almost to overflowing.
  The poet has told us that where ignorance is bless, ‘tis folly to be wise plus.  Prout was blissfully ignorant of what was about to happen.  Had he been wise to it, certainly he would never
have stretched his massive form so comfortably in that armchair, or smoked his big black cigar with show much satisfaction.
 Prout, from his armchair, surveyed his study walls, which were adorned with trophies of the chase and trophies of weapons.  With a placid smile, Prout recalled the adventures that gave the trophies such an interest to his retrospective mind.
  There were fellows at Greyfriars, and even masters, who fancied that Prout had bagged most of those trophies at secondhand shops—who even doubted whether he had ever really tracked the ferocious grizzly in the Rocky Mountains. or massacred his four footed fellow creatures with the big rifle that hung on his wall.  These doubting Thomases suspected that Mr. Prout’s yarns came, not from his memory, but from his imagination. 
  Possibly there was something in it.  Seen through the mellowing medium of a long the lapse of time, probably Mr. Prout’s youthful adventures had gradually assumed larger and larger proportions, unknown to himself.  An artistic touch here, a picturesque detail there, had doubtless crept in from time to time.
  But Prout had a firm believer in himself, at any rate.  Others might doubt whether he had shot that grisly in the Rockies, but Prout never doubted.  If he had fancied it, the fancy was now fixed in belief.
  In those days, Prout had been a dead shot with the rifle. At least; he said so. On the rifle range at Greyfriars his old skill certainly had deserted him. Still, that was no proof that he had not been a crack marksman once upon a time. He kept that old rifle well cleaned and oiled.  He was not without hope that there might be another war some day, when he might have a chance of potting a few with that trusty weapon.
  Contemplating the relics of an heroic past, Prout was cheery and happy; only needing someone to drop in for a chat. He had asked Monsieur Charpentier to drop in for a chat that evening; but it appeared that the French master had important letters to write to la belle France. He had asked Hacker, but the master of the Shell had a pile of papers to correct. He had asked Capper; but the Fourth Form master was booked to play chess with Lascelles in Common-room—or so he said.  He would have asked Quelch but there was a certain stiffness about Quelch since the time Prout had complained about the Remove. He asked Wiggins, of  the Third: and the Third Form master had said he would look in; but he did not seem in a hurry to do so. It was fortunate that Prout was not a suspicious gentleman. He might have wondered how it was that other members of the staff always seemed to have some engagement when he was in a chatty mood.
  However, someone was about to drop in.  
  A Fifth Form man, whose outward aspect was more remarkable than any Greyfriars Fifth-Former’s aspect had ever been seen before, had arrived at Prout’s study door.
  He entered without knocking.
  Prout turned his head doorward, with a hospitable smile lighting up his plump features, in expectation of seeing Mr.
Wiggins.
  That smile died away.
  Prout stared.
  He jumped.
  A bearded, moustached, bushy-browed ruffian in loud check jacket and breeches had entered his study, and closed the door behind him.
  “Good gad!” said Prout.
  He stared at his unexpected visitor, dumbfounded.
  Coker stood with his back to the door, staring at Prout.
  The hour had come!
  As it would have been put in the yellow-jacketed novels that formed Coker’s chief reading, the hour of vengeance had struck.
A disguised desperado at such a moment would, as Coker knew, gaze at his victim with grim triumph.
  So Coker gazed at him with grim triumph.
  “Good gad!” repeated Prout. He did not recognise Coker’s gaze as one of triumph. He fancied the man was intoxicated.
He rose from his chair—slowly, for had a great deal of weight to lift.
  “Who are you?” he demanded.
  Coker did not answer.
  It was not his cue to speak. Prout might recognise his voice. Besides, he had not come there for words, but for action.
  He strode to the study table.
  On the table lay a cane.
  Prout never used a cane for punishment purposes, but the cane was there. Now it was going to be used.
  Coker grasped it.
  Prout stared at him with distended eyes. Who this truculent looking ruffian might possibly be, and how on earth he had got into the school, Prout could not guess. But he was naturally alarmed, especially as this strange visitor’s actions hinted of intoxication.
  “Who are you?” he repeated. “How did you come here2? Leave this room a once.”
  Coker swished the cane in the air.
  “If you have called to see someone in the stables,” said Prout, “I cannot imagine how you save got here. But you must leave this study at once, whoever you are.”
  Coker opened his lips—and closed them again, it was necessary to tell Prout to bend over. That could be done without speaking, as Coker realised.
  After all, he could disguise his voice. Coker flattered himself that he was equal to any emergency.
  “Bend over!” he said, in a deep, hoarse, husky tone, the hoarsest and huskiest he could call up from the depths of his chest.
  Prout jumped again.
  “Wha-a-at?” he ejaculated.
  “Bend over!”
  “Are you mad?”
  Coker pointed with the cane to the chair from which Prout had risen. Prout backed away.
  He realised that this dreadful apparition was not intoxicated. He was a lunatic.  To Prout’s mind there was no doubt about that.
  Prout felt his ample flesh quiver and creep.
  He thought of shouting for help, but the fearful figure was between him and the door. Escape was cut off. At any moment the madman might spring on him,
  “Bend over!” growled Coker,
  “Mum-mum-my gog-good man!” stuttered Prout.

Coker strode at him.
  Prout jumped back
  Coker grasped at him, with the intention of bending him over forcibly.
  Prout backed to the wall.
  On that wall hung the celebrated rifle that was featured in so many of the thrilling tales told by Prout in Common-room. Prout was reminded of it by his back jamming against it.
  Usually Prout moved with the leisurely grace of a tortoise. On this occasion he moved like a teetotum. He spun round, grabbed the rifle from the wall, and clamped it to his fat shoulder, the muzzle aimed at the ruffian in the “loud check.”
  “Stand back!” gasped Prout. “Ruffian! Stand back, or I fire!”
  “Oh, my hat!” gasped Coker, forgetting to speak in the tones of the Great Hugo Bear.
 This move of Prout’s took Coker quite by surprise. It was not what he would have called sporting.
  It was said in the Fifth that Prout kept that rifle loaded. If it was loaded——
  Horace Coker jumped back faster than Prout had jumped.
  “Here, chuck that!” he gasped.
  Prout did not chuck it.
  He was not likely to chuck it when he was threatened by what appeared to him a dangerous lunatic.
  Prout had presence of mind. His idea was to keep the madman at bay with the rifle while help came to secure him.
  “Help !“ shouted Prout. “Help! Help!”
  “Oh, crikey “ gasped Coker.
  “Help! Help! Help!”
  Prout had a powerful voice. Even in conversation it was rich and fruity and booming. When he roared the celebrated Bull of Bashan had nothing on Prout.
  Prout’s voice woke every echo of Masters’ passage.
  Coker stood dismayed.
  His plans were cut and dried: to collar Prout, give him six with his own cane, and scud before trouble accrued.
  But the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley. Prout’s rifle put a wholly different complexion on the matter. If it was loaded——
  Probably it wasn’t! But it was not a chance that a fellow wanted to take!
  Besides, delays were dangerous in an enterprise like Coker’s. He had known that he would have to be rapid if he was to get clear after caning Prout. And moments fleeted.
  He was held at bay, and Prout’s roars for help awoke the echoes of Greyfriars. Already doors were opening and voices calling.
  There was only one thing for Horace Coker to do unless he was to be cornered and collared in Prout’s study, stripped of his disguise, and marched to the Head to be sacked. And he did it! He executed a strategic retreat doorward— tore open the door, and ran for it.
  Vengeance on Prout had to wait! Coker himself could not afford to wait!
  He fled.
  “Help!  Help!” roared Prout. “Stop him! Help!”
  There was already a master running along the passage towards Prout’s study.  Fortunately it was only Monsieur Charpentier. The French master was brave as a lion, but physically he was not up to Coker’s weight. Coker met him in full career, and Monsieur Charpentier was distributed along the passage.
  Coker rushed on, gained Class-room No. 10, dodged in, slammed the door, and locked it. A minute more and Masters’ passage was in an uproar from end to end.

Picture and text credits: Amalgamated Press

 

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