Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (6 page)

CHAPTER XI

NEW RESOLUTIONS!

“WHARTON, old chap—!”
“Don’t bother!”
“But I say—!”
“Buzz off!”
“Look here—!”
“Dry up!”
Billy Bunter did not dry up: neither did he buzz off. He rolled into No. 1
Study, and shut the door after him: and the captain of the Remove reached for a
missile.
It was several days since Bunter’s heart-to-heart talk with his form-master in
Quelch’s study. By that time, all the Remove knew of the sword of Damocles that
impended over Billy Bunter’s fat head.
Sad to relate, they did not take it with due seriousness. It was awful for
Bunter—but the rest of the Remove did not seem somehow to perceive the
awfulness of the situation. The prospect of losing Bunter did not have the
generally dismaying effect that might have been expected.
But if nobody else realised how serious it was, Bunter did. Billy Bunter didn’t
want to leave Greyfriars.
The place had its drawbacks, of course. Nobody there valued Bunter at his real
value. A fellow had to work—to some extent, at least. Quelch, like many
schoolmasters, fancied that fellows came to school to learn things. This was
quite a mistake, so far as Bunter was concerned.
Bunter was going to stick to the dear old school! But it was borne in upon his
fat mind, that there was only one means of sticking to the dear old school. He
had to tread the thorny path of reform. Reform, of course, was not
necessary—Bunter was completely satisfied with himself. Indeed his
self-satisfaction was unlimited. But it was Quelch that had to be
satisfied—there was the rub! And Quelch could only be satisfied by a drastic
change in William George Bunter’s manners and customs. To that resolve Billy
Bunter had come at last! It was neck or nothing.
With such serious matters on his fat mind, it was very irritating to Bunter to
be told to dry up and buzz off when he rolled in on the captain of the Remove.
Harry Wharton was sitting at the study table, with a paper before him, a pencil
in his hand, and a thoughtful wrinkle in his brow. He was going through the
list of the cricket team that was shortly going over to Highcliffe to play
Courtenay and the Caterpillar and their comrades. This, to the captain of the
Remove, was a rather serious matter: for the Highcliffe junior cricketers were
hot stuff, and the game would be anything but a walk-over.
But it was, of course, a trifle light as air, in comparison with Billy Bunter’s
problem. In fact, all the affairs of all other fellows, were the veriest
trifles in comparison with Bunter’s affairs!
 “Look here, Wharton, you know how I’m fixed,” said the fat Owl, with a
reproachful blink at the captain of his form. “I think you might back up a
fellow when he’s down on his luck—especially after all I’ve done for you.”
“Busy, old fat man. Cut off.”
“Lines for Quelch?” asked Bunter.
“No, ass—cricket list, for the Highcliffe match next week. And it’s just on
time for nets,” said Harry, glancing at the study clock. “Roll away, like a
good barrel.”
“Well, I’ve got to speak to you about cricket, among other things,” said
Bunter. “I suppose you don’t want me to leave Greyfriars, Wharton.”
Harry Wharton laughed.
“I might just be able to bear it,” he answered. “A fellow’s tuck would be safe
in his study cupboard, at any rate.”
‘Beast! I mean, I want your help, old chap. You know how the matter stands.
I’ve got to keep Quelch quiet, or he will push me out at the end of the term.
He’s said so. I’m going to get a good report this term, or bust!” declared
Bunter. “I’m going to get a good report, even if I have to mug up Latin like
Linley does, and sit up over deponent verbs with a wet towel round my head.”
“Good egg,” said Harry. “Best of luck! Shut the door after you.”
“I’m going all out,” said Bunter, impressively. “I loathe the muck, of
course—but after all, it’s simply a matter of brains to mug it up: and that’s
rather my long suit.”
“Oh, scissors!”
“It will mean work,” said Bunter. “But not so tough as in the pater’s office.
Well, I’m going to work.”
“The change may do you good,” assented Wharton. ‘Glad to hear it. Now go and
tell some other fellow about it.”
“But that isn’t all,” said Bunter. “There’s games. That’s where you come in.
You run games in the Remove, as captain. You can help me there. Quelch thinks I
slack at games. If I get into Remove games, it will make a big difference. Good
in class and good at games—that’s the idea!
Mens sankey in corpus
sancho
—you
know what I mean.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Wharton. “Do you mean
mens ana in corpore sano
?”
“No, I don’t,” snapped Bunter. “I mean what I say—
mens sankey in corpus
sancho
. You can’t teach me Latin, Wharton.”
“I’d rather not try,” said Harry, laughing. “That’s Quelch’s job—and I wish him
joy of it. Now you’re finished—.”
“That’s where I want your help. You’ve often said that I slack at games—just
like Quelch. You needn’t deny it— you have!”
“Guilty, my lord.”
“Well, what I want is a chance,” said Bunter. “You needn’t give me a place in
the team for Highcliffe—.”
“Thanks! I won’t.”
“I prefer to play in a Home match,” explained Bunter. “I want Quelch’s eye on
me. St. Jim’s will be coming over soon, and Carcroft, and Sparshott, and
Topham—well. I’m not particular which match I play in—I’ll leave that to you,”
said Bunter, generously. “Put me in one fairly soon, that’s all.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Wharton.
“What are you cackling at?” demanded Bunter.
“Your little joke.”
“I’m not joking—!” howled Bunter.
“Your mistake: you are!” Wharton assured him. “Now roll away and be funny in
some other study. I really want to go over this list before nets.”
“Are you going to put me down for a Remove match or not?” demanded Bunter.
“Not!”
“If I make a good show, it will help to keep Quelch quiet. You see that?”
argued Bunter. “This isn’t a time for paltry jealousy of a better man, Harry
Wharton. Put that right aside for once.”
“You howling ass—!”
“The sooner the better,” said Bunter. “I want to get on Quelch’s right
side—delays are dangerous, you know. If he sees my name on the cricket list, he
will sit up and take notice.”
“I’ll bet he would!” chuckled Wharton.
“Well, will you put my name down for the next cricket match at home—?”
“Hardly!”
“Quelch would see me play—!”
“We can’t chuck cricket matches away, simply to provide Quelch with a funny
entertainment.”
“You silly ass!” roared Bunter. “I can play your head off, and chance it. Mind,
I don’t want to be a regular member of the eleven. I haven’t time. But I want
to play in the next home game, to keep Quelch quiet, see? That’s the  important
point. I suppose you don’t think your dashed cricket is so important as my
staying on at Greyfriars——!”
“More!”
“Beast!”
“But I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you,” said Harry. He rose from the table,
and put the cricket list in his pocket. ‘If you’re keen on cricket—.”
“Frightfully keen!” assured Bunter.
“Well, I’ll see that you don’t cut nets, I’ll back you up all along the line in
getting lots of practice—.”
“I don’t need the practice you do!” said Bunter, disdainfully. “The fact is, I
can’t come down today—I’ve got a pain in my leg—.”
“Which leg?”
“I forget—I mean, the right leg. A pain like a burning dagger,” said Bunter. “A
touch of plumbago, I think—there’s a lot of plumbago in my family. Otherwise
I’d come like a—a shot. But with this bad wrist—.”
“A bad wrist as well as a bad leg?”
“I mean this bad leg! With this bad leg, I should only be in the way,” said
Bunter. “You can explain to Wingate if he asks why I’m not there.”
Harry Wharton chuckled. Bunter, apparently, was on the path of reform. But he
had not progressed very far along that thorny path. He was still the same old
Bunter.
The door of No. 1 Study was hurled open, a sturdy figure in flannels appeared
in the doorway, and Bob Cherry’s ruddy face looked in. He had a bat under his
arm.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo!” roared Bob. “Time you changed, if you’re not going to be
late, old scout.”
“Right-ho! Come on, Bunter.”
“I’m not coming, old chap! This pain in my arm—I mean my leg—.”
“Don’t be a fat ass,” said Harry, tersely. “It’s a compulsory day, and Wingate
will give us a look in. Get a move on.”
“I hope you’re not going to be a beast, Wharton! You can let a man off if he’s
ill, as captain of the Form. Tell Wingate I’m ill. There’s a pain in my leg
like a red-hot poker,” said Bunter, pathetically. “I’m as keen as—as anything,
but with this awful pain, I could do simply nothing. I believe I’ve got a touch
of pneumonia in my knee—.”
“Oh, crumbs!” ejaculated Bob Cherry. “That sounds bad.”
“It is bad, old chap! I can bear it,” said Bunter, nobly.
“I’m not a fellow to make a fuss, even about agony like this. I think I’ll take
a rest in your armchair, Wharton—I couldn’t even walk downstairs at this
moment. I couldn’t even walk out of the study.”
“You fat chump, get a move on.” said Wharton, impatiently.
“Oh, really, Wharton, when I’m suffering this fearful pain—!”
“Hold on,” said Bob. “If Bunter’s got a fearful pain, and can’t walk out of the
study, he certainly can’t go down to the nets, and you’ll have to let him off.
But perhaps he exaggerates. I’ll try prodding him with this bat, and I
shouldn’t wonder if he could walk out of the study all right.”
“Yaroooh!” roared Bunter. “Keep that bat away, you silly ass! Whooop!” Billy
Bunter fairly bounded.
“Well, he can jump, if he can’t walk,” said Bob. “A pot of prodding—!”
“Ow! wow! Will you keep that bat away!” roared Bunter, dodging round the study
table. “Beast! Leave off shoving that bat at me, will you? I—I’m going. Will
you leave off bunging that bat in my ribs, you beast! I’m going, ain’t I?”
Billy Bunter—under Bob’s cheerful prodding—found that he could not only walk,
but actually run! Two chuckling juniors followed him down. Five minutes later a
fat figure that looked on the point of bursting out of its flannels rolled reluctantly
down to junior nets. If Billy Bunter was keen on cricket, nobody would have
guessed it from the expression on his fat face.

CHAPTER XII

QUELCH IS NOT PLEASED!

‘You will go on, Bunter.”
“Oh, lor’!” breathed Billy Bunter.
He hoped to escape the gimlet-eye that morning! In a numerous form like the
Remove, every fellow was not called upon for “con”. Any fellow might be called,
so it behoved every fellow to be prepared. Any Remove man who neglected “prep”,
and trusted to luck in the form-room, was taking risky chances. But William
George Bunter was just the fellow to take the risk.
Since that serious talk with Quelch in his study, Billy Bunter had made new
resolutions—he had made up his fat mind to do a spot of work: and indeed, to
surprise Quelch with a display of scholarship. And for several days Bunter had
kept more or less to his new resolves. But though the spirit was willing, the
flesh was weak. Laziness supervened: and, at length, Bunter had chanced it,
once more, in his happy way.
It was very unfortunate, in the circumstances. He really did want to make a
good impression on his form- master—if only it could be done without exerting
himself. He really did want a good report that term—a good report was in fact
indispensable to him. He wanted his report to contain such phrases as
“painstaking”, and “conscientious worker”. The only way was to satisfy Quelch
in class—and the shortest cut to Quelch’s esteem was a good “con”. Bunter
really wished he had not been too busy the previous evening to bother about
prep. But it was too late to think of that now.
He had hoped that the gimlet-eye might pass him over that morning. But the
gimlet-eye hadn’t!
Bunter blinked dismally at his Latin page. Even when he had taken a shot at his
prep, his translation was generally rather askew. But this time he had not even
looked at it. A page of prepared Latin presented many difficulties to Bunter. A
page of unprepared Latin was a deep mystery to him.
But he had to construe. It was useless to tell Quelch that he had had no time
for prep—worse than useless, in fact!
“I said go on, Bunter!”
“Oh! Yes, sir!” gasped Bunter. “I—I’ve lost the place, sir—.”
 “You should not lose the place, Bunter! Go on from ‘
At pius Aeneas, per
noctem plurima volvens
—
’!
” snapped Mr. Quelch.
“Yes, sir,” moaned Bunter, blinking at his page. Evidently it was something
about that beast, Aeneas, but Bunter wondered dismally what the beast was up to
this time. The most concentrated blink could not extract any particular meaning
from the verse of P. Vergilius Maro.
“I am waiting for you to go on, Bunter,” said Mr. Quelch, in a deep voice.
“Oh, certainly, sir! I—I was just—just thinking!
At Pius Aeneas, per noctem
plurima volvens, ut primum lux alma data est—!”
“Construe!” rapped Mr. Quelch.
“But good Aeneas—!” Peter Todd ventured to whisper. It was a rather dangerous
venture under the gimlet-eye.
“Todd!” barked Mr. Quelch. “Did you speak?”
“Oh! Yes! I—!”
“Take fifty lines, Todd.”
There was no more help for Bunter. Nobody else wanted fifty lines. The hapless
Owl had to make a shot at it.
“But good Aeneas—!” he mumbled. There was a pause.
“Go on, Bunter.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I—I’m going on,” groaned Bunter. “It— it’s quite easy to me,
sir, as I was—was so careful with my prep last night, sir.”
“If you do not immediately construe, Bunter—.”
“But good Aeneas,” gasped Bunter. “But—but—but Gig-gig-good
Aeneas, per
noctem plurima volvens
— turning over in bed—.”
“Wha-a-a-t?”
“But good Aeneas, turning over several times in the night—” amended Bunter.
“Ha, ha, ha!” yelled the Remove.
“Silence! Bunter, what do you mean by this?” thundered Mr. Quelch.
“Is— —isn’t that right, sir?” stammered Bunter.
“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Quelch.
“Ut pr/mum lux alma data est—when he was given a light!” pursued Bunter.
“Bunter! Have you the faintest idea of the meaning of that passage?” exclaimed
Mr. Quelch.
“Oh, yes, sir. Aeneas was turning over in bed, and they gave him a light—”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“You have not prepared this lesson, Bunter.”
“Oh, yes, sir! I—I was very careful with it. I—I worked at it very hard, sir,”
groaned Bunter. “I—I think I’ve got it right, sir.”
“Grant me patience!” articulated Mr. Quelch.
Billy Bunter looked indignant. It was true that he hadn’t prepared that
passage: and he had had to make a shot at it unprepared: and that it was rather
a shot in the dark. Still, his “con” seemed all right—to Bunter. He had at
least got some sense out of it: and a fellow couldn’t always get any sense out
of Virgil!
Quelch gazed at him, apparently at a loss for words: and Bunter went on:
“
Exire locosque explorare novos
—goes out and explores nine places—!”
“Stop!” almost shrieked Mr. Quelch.
Bunter stopped. He was glad enough to stop, so far as that went. But he could
not hope that he had made a good impression on his form-master, and taken a
step towards that good report that he needed so much. Only too clearly he
hadn’t.
He blinked uneasily at Quelch. It was borne in upon his fat mind that Quelch
was going to be a beast!
“Bunter! If you prepared this lesson—!”
“Oh, yes, sir! Toddy knows—Todd’s in my study, sir! I wasn’t sitting in the
armchair while you did your prep, was I, Toddy? You can ask Todd, sir.”
“If you have prepared this lesson,” said Mr. Quelch, in a grinding voice, “you
will immediately construe that passage, Bunter. If not—.”
“Oh! Yes, sir!” groaned Bunter.
So far as Bunter could see, he had construed that passage. Quelch did not seem
to think so: in fact, he seemed annoyed about something. Bunter blinked at his
Latin again, willing to take another pot-shot, if he could possibly disentangle
any other meaning from the rot. But he couldn’t. If “
At pius Aeneas, per
noctem plurima volvens, ut primum lux alma data est, exire locosque explorare
novos
” didn’t mean “But the good Aeneas, turning over often in the night,
when he is given a light goes out and explores nine places”, Bunter just didn’t
know what it did mean or might mean.
“Well?” hooted Mr. Quelch.
“I—I think I’ve got it right, sir!” gasped Bunter. “You utterly obtuse boy—.”
“Oh, really, sir—.”
“If you had prepared this lesson, Bunter, you could not  possibly make such
absurd mistakes. You have done no preparation. You are making wild guesses at
the meaning of that passage! Your translation, Bunter, would disgrace a small
boy in the Second Form. I will not permit such idleness, such slackness—in my
form! I have warned you, Bunter, of the consequences of idleness and slackness.
I shall now cane you.”
“Oh, lor’!”
“Stand out before the class, Bunter.”
Billy Bunter rolled out reluctantly. Mr. Quelch picked up the cane from his
desk. Billy Bunter eyed it with apprehension.
“Bend over that chair, Bunter.”
Whack!
“Ow!”
Whack!
Bunter wriggled back to his place. He wriggled a good deal during the remainder
of that lesson. When the form were dismissed, he wriggled his way out of the
form-room. And he realised, very clearly, that he hadn’t made any progress
towards that good report at the end of the term. On that point there was no
doubt: no possible, probable shadow of doubt: no possible doubt whatever!