Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (14 page)

CHAPTER XXVII

NO SALE!

“WAIT a tick!” said Peter Todd. “My bat’s in my study.”
“Two ticks if you like, old bean,” said Bob Cherry.
Peter Todd had been talking cricket with the Famous Five, after tea, in No. 1 Study.
They came out of the study in a cheery bunch, to go down to the nets. Wharton
and Co. waited in a group in the passage while Peter Todd Went along to No. 7
for his bat.
Herbert Vernon-Smith came out of No. 4 with a frown on his brow.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo, coming down, Smithy?” called out Bob.
“Look here, some fellow has been larking in my study,” growled the Bounder. He
held up an empty box. “Any of you fellows borrowed my instruments?”
Five heads were shaken.
“Well, somebody has, and I’ve got some geometry to do for Lascelles,” grunted
the Bounder. “The silly ass has taken out the instruments and left the box
empty. That fat villain Bunter borrowed my compasses once and lost them. If
it’s Bunter, I’ll scalp him.”
Peter Todd’s voice was heard from No. 7.
“Where’s that dashed bat? Has some ass borrowed my bat? Seen my bat, Tom?”
“No, I haven’t seen your hat, Toddy,” came the voice of Peter’s deaf
study-mate. “I expect you left it in the lobby.”
“Not hat—bat!” yelled Peter.
“Whose fat cat? Do you mean Mrs. Kebble’s cat? It comes up to the studies
sometimes, but I haven’t seen it here.”
The Famous Five, with smiling faces, looked into No. 7 Study. Tom Dutton was
there, standing at the bookshelf. He had apparently been looking for a book
when Peter blew in.
“Seen my Latin dick, Peter?” he asked.
“Bother your dick! Where’s my dashed bat?”
“Who smashed it?” asked Dutton, in surprise. “I’d jolly well kick up a row if
anybody smashed my hat! Do you mean your Sunday hat?”
“I never said hat!” shrieked Peter.
“Oh, don’t be an ass, old chap. I jolly well know that you haven’t got a red
hat! You wouldn’t be allowed to wear it here if you had. Fancy a chap in a red
hat, like a cardinal!” said Dutton. “Trying to pull my leg, or what?”
“Lost your bat, Toddy?” asked Harry Wharton, laughing.
“No, I jolly well haven’t lost it,” snorted Peter. I left it here, lying on the
study table, when I came along to your study. Somebody’s shifted it. Look here,
Dutton—.”
“I’m looking now,” said Tom. “I’ve been looking for some time, but I can’t find
it. I left it here on the shelf with my other books. I wonder who’s borrowed my
Latin dictionary.”
“There seems to have been a lot of borrowing going on,” remarked Frank Nugent.
“Smithy’s instruments, and Toddy’s bat, and Dutton’s dick. Can’t be Bunter—he’s
, got no use for any of them.”
“Even the esteemed Bunter cannot eat a set of instruments, a cricket bat, and
an absurd Latin dictionary!” remarked Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
“Look here, Dutton, roared Peter, “I want my bat! Not my hat—or Mrs. Kebble’s
cat—but my cricket bat!”
“Eh! Did you say your cricket bat?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I don’t suppose Bunter hid it. Why should he? Did you say hid?”
“Did you see Bunter with my bat?”
“No—he hadn’t a hat! I saw him with a cricket bat. He was coming out of the
study when I came up, and he had a cricket bat under his arm, and a lot of
books under the other. I wonder if he had my Latin dick among them, though. I
don’t see why he should, but it’s gone.”
“Where did he take my bat?”
“That’s rot, Peter! Bunter’s rather a little beast, but he wouldn’t shake a
cat. Mrs. Kebble would be after him, if she saw him. Besides, I’ve told you the
cat hasn’t been here. I should have seen it.”
“Where did Bunter take my cricket bat?” roared Peter, in a voice that Stentor
of old might have envied.
“Oh! Your cricket bat! You needn’t yell in my ear, Toddy—I’m not deaf!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” came from the passage.
“Will you tell me where he took my cricket bat?” raved Peter.
“Of course I will, old chap, only you needn’t yell at a fellow. He went into
Fishy’s study. If you see him ask him if he’s got my Latin dick among those
hooks he had—he might—.”
Peter did not wait for any more: he rushed out of the study, and galloped up
the passage to No. 14 Study. Harry Wharton and Co. and the Bounder, with
grinning faces, followed him. Peter looked as if something might happen to
Bunter, when he found him.
The door of No. 14 Study crashed open.
It made Fisher T. Fish jump. Five or six coins dropped from his bony fingers,
rolled on the table, and clinked on the floor.
“Wake snakes!” ejaculated Fisher T. Fish. “What the John James Brown—!” He
glared at Peter, as he rushed in.
“Oh, crikey!” gasped Bunter. His eyes popped at Peter Todd. “I—I say, Peter,
wharrer you want here? I—I say, get out, old chap—you’re interrupting—.”
“Where’s my bat?” roared Peter.
“Eh! I—I don’t know anything about your bat, old fellow. I—I think Wharton
borrowed it—!”
“Guess again!” said a voice from the passage.
“Oh, I didn’t see you, Harry, old chap! I—I mean it was Nugent, Peter—he—he
came into the study, and said ‘Hand me Toddy’s bat, will you?’ So I—I handed it
to him, and he walked off with it—.”
“Oh, scissors!” gasped Frank Nugent, “I did, did I?”
“Eh! I—I mean it was Bull—.”
“You mean it was me!” roared Johnny Bull.
“Oh! Yes! No!” stammered Bunter, blinking at the laughing crowd of faces in the
doorway of No. 14. “What I—I really mean is, it was Temple of the Fourth. He-he
came into the study, and said—!”
“Why, there it is!” roared Peter. Fisher T. Fish’s purchases lay on the table:
and Peter, discerning the bat, recognised it as his own. He pounced upon it and
grabbed it up. “You fat chump! You podgy piffler! What the howling dickens did
you bring my bat here for?”
“I—I—I didn’t!” gasped Bunter. “I—I————.”
“Say, this is the elephant’s hind leg, and then some!” ejaculated Fisher T.
Fish. “Mean to say that’s your bat, Todd?”
“Think I don’t know my own bat?” roared Peter.
“Search me!” gasped Fishy. “That fat clam has just sold it to me—.”
“What?” shrieked Peter.
“He’s sure sold me that bat for seven and six—.”
“Hallo, hallo, hallo!” exclaimed Bob Cherry. “What’s my pocket-knife doing
here?” He stepped into the study, and picked up another of Fishy’s recent
purchases. “Your pocket-knife!” ejaculated Fishy. “Well, I’ll swow! Bunter’s
sold me that pocket-knife for five bob—.”
“He’s sold you my pocket-knife!” gurgled Bob. Bunter, you fat villain, did you
snoop this pocket-knife out of my study—?”
“Oh! No! I—I———Oh, lor’!”
“How did my alarm clock get here?” exclaimed Vernon-Smith.
“Yourn!” gasped Fishy.
“Oh, my hat gasped Harry Wharton. “I wonder whose that fountain pen is, and
those instruments—.”  
 “Mine! roared Vernon-Smith. “I’ve got the box here—they’re my instruments.
That fat burglar—.”
“Aw, carry me home to die!” gasped Fisher T. Fish.
“I’m telling you that Bunter’s sold me them instruments for ten bob, and the
fountain-pen for seven and six!” 
“Whose fountain-pen?” asked Wharton, laughing. “Looks like yours,” said Nugent.
“What!” The captain of the Remove ceased to laugh and grabbed the fountain-pen
off the table. “Why, Bunter, you—you—you———.”
“I—I say, you fellows. I—I—I didn’t—I—I mean I wasn’t—that is, I—I mean—you
see—I—I—.”
Bunter was a little incoherent.
Great Christopher Columbus!” said Fisher T. Fish, “I’ll say I’m glad you guys
blew in! I was just going to pay that fat clam two pounds for that lot—.”
“Bunter, you fat villain—.”
“Bunter, you burglar—.”
“Bunter, you podgy pirate— !”
“Scrag him!”
“Scalp him!”
“Boot him!”
“Burst him!”
“I—I say, you fellows!” Billy Bunter dodged round the table, in alarm. “I—I
say, it’s all right! Let a fellow explain! I tell you it’s all right! You don’t
think I’d snoop your things, do you? Do let a fellow explain! I say, you
fellows, will you listen to a fellow?” yelled Bunter. “I can explain, if you’ll
give me time.”
“A judge will be giving you time, some day!” roared Peter. “I’m going to give
you this bat—!”
“Yaroooh! Keep off, you beast! I tell you it’s all right!” shrieked Bunter.
“Smithy, you rotter, keep those compasses away from my trousers, will you!
Yaroop!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“It’s all right!” yelled Bunter. “You weren’t going to lose the things. I—I only
borrowed them for a day or two. I’ve got to raise two pounds, haven’t I? I—I
was only going to sell those things temporarily. Only for a few days. I was
going to buy them back from Fishy, in a few days. See? Think I ain’t honest,
you beasts?”
“Oh, crumbs!” gasped Bob Cherry. “Anybody here think Bunter isn’t honest?”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“The thinkfulness is terrific.”
“I tell you it’s all right!” hooted Bunter. “Just a matter of a few days—only a
few days at the most—then I shall have the money, and—.”
“And where is it coming from?” asked the Bounder.
“I’m expecting a postal-order———.”
“What?” yelled the juniors.
“A postal-order! From one of my titled relations, you know. So you see it would
be all right.”
If Billy Bunter hoped that that explanation would satisfy the owners of the
property he had brought to Fishy’s study, it showed that Bunter had a very
hopeful nature!
“Collar him!” roared Bob.
“Bag him!”
“Bump him!”
“Boot him!”
“Oh, crikey! Leggo! I say, you fellows—. Beasts! Stop sticking those compasses
into me, Smithy, you smudge—if you kick me again, Wharton—leggo my ear,
Bull—will you leggo my ear? Keep that bat away, Toddy—. Oh! ow! wow! Help!
Fire! Yaroooooop!”
Billy Bunter had come to No. 14 Study to raise the wind. He seemed to have
raised a whirlwind! It was a wildly dishevelled and dilapidated Bunter that
escaped into the passage, at last, and fled, yelling.
“Say! I guess you guys want to give him some more!” exclaimed Fisher T. Fish.
“I’m telling you, he was touching me for two pounds for that caboodle! Say, you
want to give him a few more, and then some.”
“I think Bunter’d had enough,” said Peter. “Now you’re going to have a few.
Lend a hand here, you men.”
“What-ho!”
“Say, you gone loco?” yelled Fisher T. Fish, jumping up in alarm. “Leave that
table alone—hands off—I guess I’ll make potato-scrapings of you—I sure
guess—Oh, great John James Brown! Oh, Christopher Columbus! Whoop!”
The Remove merchant, in a dizzy state, rolled on the floor of No. 14. The table
was upended over him, and all sorts of coins of the realm spattered on him in a
shower. Then Harry Wharton and Co. crowded out of the study, leaving the
businessman of the Remove to sort himself out at his leisure.
Billy Bunter was still in want of his two pounds. But it seemed improbable that
he would resort again to that extraordinary method of raising the wind—and if
he did, it was an absolute certainty that he would not be able to do business
with Fisher T. Fish. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

SPORTING!

“ONE for me?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, good!” exclaimed Billy Bunter.
In morning break, a good many fellows had come along to look in the rack for
letters. Billy Bunter, of course, was there. Bunter had long been expecting a
postal-order. It had not come.
Perhaps Bunter did not really so much expect a remittance, as hope for one.
Certainly he was badly in need of one. As a rule, Bunter was not very keen or
anxious on the subject of liquidating debts. He owed various sums, ranging from
sixpence to half-a-crown, up and down the Remove, and did not allow these
liabilities to worry him unduly.
But that wretched two pounds was another matter. Twice again Quelch had spoken
to him on the subject. Bunter was sick and tired of it.
The fat Owl was in daily dread of the matter going home to Mr. Bunter. And he could
not help feeling that the effect on Quelch was bad. He could see quite plainly
that he was not rising in Quelch’s opinion. Quelch was down on him—Quelch made
that quite clear. It was awfully unjust—but there it was!
So a letter in the rack for W. G. Bunter brightened the fat Owl’s worried face.
There was a chance, at least, that a remittance might be in it.
“Hand it down, Bob, old chap!” said Bunter, eagerly.
Bob Cherry handed it down.
“That jolly old postal-order at last, what?” grinned the Bounder. “The one
you’ve been expecting ever since you were in the Second Form!”
“Oh, really, Smithy—!”
“From one of your titled relations?” asked Skinner. “Which one, Bunter—the duke
or the marquis?”
“Yah!” was Bunter’s brief and elegant reply to that question.
“One for you, Smithy,” said Bob.
“Chuck it over,” said the Bounder, carelessly. Billy Bunter blinked at his
letter. It was addressed in Mr. Bunter’s hand: and his hope of a remittance was
faint as he saw the parental fist. If it had been from some uncle or aunt, he
might have expected better things—but he was only too sadly aware that Mr.
William Samuel Bunter was more likely to send him a lecture on economy than a
remittance. There was a chance, perhaps, but it was a very faint one. Having
ascertained, from the envelope, that the letter came from Mr. Bunter, the fat
Owl did not seem specially eager to open it.
His blink left his own letter, and fastened on that in Smithy’s hand, which Bob
Cherry had obligingly chucked” over.
Smithy very often had handsome remittances. Mr. Vernon-Smith, who was a
millionaire several times over, often enclosed currency notes, and even
banknotes, in his letters to his son at Greyfriars. There might be two or three
pound notes in a letter for Smithy from home: or a fiver—possibly even a
tenner! And in his own letter, Bunter expected to find nothing but sage advice
about being careful to keep within his allowance!
“I—I say, Smithy—!” exclaimed Bunter, suddenly. “Eh, what?” asked the Bounder.
He had thrust his letter carelessly into his pocket without even opening it.
‘Look here, we’ve got a letter each,” said Bunter. “I’ll tell you what,
Smithy—you’re a sportsman, old chap— I’ll make you a sporting offer. What?”
The Bounder stared at him.
“What may that happen to mean, if it means anything?” he asked.
“Well, look here,” said Bunter. “I’ve got a letter and ‘You’ve got a letter.
See? There may be a tip in yours. There may be a tip in mine. Halves!”
“What?” ejaculated the Bounder.
“We’ll whack it out, whatever it is, what?” said Bunter. That’s a sporting
offer, Smithy! Ten to one there’s a tip in one of the letters, see? Well, if
it’s in mine, I’ll whack it out with you. If it’s in yours, you whack it out
with me. See?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Bob Cherry. “Is that what you call a sporting offer, old
fat man?”
There was a general chortle among the fellows standing by the letter-rack. The
Bounder joined in it.
Bunter’s “sporting” offer was rather a safe one, it seemed to the other
fellows. It was possible, no doubt, that there was a remittance in Bunter’s
letter from home: but Billy Bunter had been expecting a postal-order for a very
long time—a very long time indeed—and, though a remittance was possible, it did
not seem probable. In the Bounder’s case, on the other hand, it was very
probable indeed, if his letter was from home, that there was a handsome tip in
it.
“Well, I call it sporting,” said Bunter. “We go halves, Smithy, in any tips
that are in these letters—that’s fair! It’s just as likely that there’s one in
my letter as in yours.—!”
“Oh, just!” grinned Skinner.
“The justfulness is terrific!” chuckled Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
“Play up, Smithy!” chortled Bob. “You know how likely it is that there’s a
postal-order in Bunter’s letter.
Don’t lose this chance!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I say, you fellows, you shut up!” hooted Bunter. “Smithy’s a sportsman—ain’t
you, Smithy?”
“Oh, quite!” said Vernon-Smith, laughing. “If you mean it, Bunter—.”
“Honest Injun old chap!” said Bunter, eagerly. There was no doubt that Bunter
meant it!
“Well, I don’t mind,” said Smithy. “I’m a sportsman as you say, old fat man,
and I’ll take a sporting offer.”
Billy Bunter beamed.
The fact that Bunter had not immediately opened his letter, told how little he
really supposed that it might contain anything in the nature of legal tender.
It was really a case of “Heads I win, tails you lose!”
“Let’s have it clear,” went on Smithy, while all the juniors stared at him,
blankly. “We open the letters together, and share and share alike in any
remittance in either or both! Is that it?”
“That’s it!” gasped Bunter, scarcely daring to believe in his good luck.
The Bounder glanced round at staring faces. “You fellows are all witnesses to
that!” he said. Bunter
and I go halves in whatever dough there may be in our letters.”
“I suppose you’re pulling that fat chump’s leg,” said Harry Wharton.
“Not in the least.”
“Well, what’s your game, then, Smithy?” asked Peter Todd. “You know that that
fat ass doesn’t get a remittance once in a blue moon—.”
“Oh, really, Toddy—.”
“You jolly well know his fatheaded postal-order hasn’t come,” said Peter, “so
what are you up to, Smithy?” “Takin’ a sportin’ offer,” answered Smithy.
“You shut up Toddy ‘hooted Bunter ‘You let Smithy alone’ Smithy s a sportsman
and he’s sticking to his word ain’t you Smithy”
“Like glue!” assented the Bounder.
“Open your letter, old chap!” said Bunter. “I say, be quick——!”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“I don’t make you out, Smithy,” said Harry Wharton.
“But if you’re leg-pulling, you can’t back out now.”
“Who wants to?” said Smithy.
“I say, Smithy, do open that letter—.”
“All right!”
Herbert Vernon-Smith drew out the letter he had dropped into his pocket.
He slit the envelope, with all eyes on him—Billy Bunter’s eyes fairly gloating
through his spectacles.
All the fellows were puzzled by the Bounder’s easy acceptance of Bunter’s
“sporting offer”, and could not make the Bounder out. It was true that he had
plenty of  money but it was equally true that he knew how to take care of it.
Yet if there was a remittance in that letter, he was bound now to “whack it
out” with Billy Bunter.
But the Bounder seemed quite easy about it. He slit the envelope with his
penknife, and drew out a folded letter from within.
Billy Bunter almost gasped with eagerness. He could scarcely wait while
Vernon-Smith unfolded that letter. Then—!
“Oh!” gasped Bunter.
“Oh!” gasped a dozen fellows.
Smithy held up the letter for every fellow to see. It was a single sheet with a
printed heading.