Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... (8 page)

CHAPTER XV

STUMPED!

HERBERT VERNON-SMITH
jumped, as his study door was suddenly opened.
Tea was over in No. 4 Study in the Remove, and Tom Redwing had gone down.
Smithy had lingered to smoke a cigarette after tea, which was one of his
manners and customs. And he had a pink paper on his knee—being keenly
interested in the prospects of Nobbled Nick for the Welsher’s Handicap. So that
sudden opening of his study door made Smithy jump. Had it been a master or a
prefect at his door, the scapegrace of Greyfriars would have been booked for
six of the very best—if not an interview with his headmaster.
But it was not a beak or a pre. that looked in. It was a fat face adorned by a
large pair of spectacles.
Smithy bestowed quite a deadly look on that fat face. The Owl of the Remove did
not observe that deadly look. He rolled in and shut the door after him.
Smithy’s cigarette and pink paper disappeared from sight: and he looked round
for a cricket stump.
“You fat, frabjous, footling, frumptious foozler!” said the Bounder. “Don’t
they knock at doors in the slum you come from?”
“I’m in rather a hurry, Smithy, old chap! Those beasts may come after me,”
explained Bunter. “It’s all right, Smithy—I didn’t see you smoking—and I shan’t
tell anybody! I say, I’ve come here to let you in on a good thing. Looking for
something, old fellow?”
“Yes. Hand me that cricket stump in the corner.”
“Eh! What do you want a cricket stump for?” asked Bunter, blinking at him.
“You!”
“Oh, really, Smithy.” Bunter did not hand Smithy the cricket-stump. “I say,
listen to a chap, old man. I’ve sometimes had a jolly good spread in this
study, Smithy. Well, now I’m going to stand you one.”
“Has your postal-order come?” inquired the Bounder, sarcastically. “I seem to
have heard that you were expecting one.”
“Well, no,” admitted Bunter. “There’s some delay in the post—I can’t quite make
it out: but it hasn’t come. Never mind that now. I say, Smithy, how would you
like cold chicken, and jelly, and preserves, and home-made jam, tarts and buns,
apples and pears, peaches and pineapples—what?”
“Got them in your trousers’ pocket?” inquired the Bounder, still sarcastic.
“Nunno! They’re in a—a—a hamper, at present—.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared Smithy. “I’ve heard that Coker of the Fifth had a hamper
today. Is that it?”
“Well, you ain’t afraid of Coker of the Fifth, like those smugs in No. I
study,” said Bunter. “I’ve come to you Smithy, because you’ve got tons of
pluck.” 
“Thanks,” grinned the Bounder.
“Tons!” said Bunter, admiringly. “You’ve got more pluck, Smithy, than any other
man at Greyfriars. Pluck’s your long suit! Pluckiest man at Greyfriars. and
chance it!” declared Bunter.
“Pile it on!” said Smithy.
“I mean it,” said Bunter. “I ain’t just buttering you because I want you to get
after that hamper in Coker’s study, Smithy.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” yelled Smithy.
“Blessed if I see anything to cackle at. I’ve always admired your pluck,
Smithy. I don’t think you’re a swanking fathead, old chap, like other fellows
do.”
“Oh!” gasped Smithy.
“Being the pluckiest chap at Greyfriars, with a nerve of—of iron, you won’t be
scared like Wharton and his gang. Not you!” said Bunter, admiringly. “You’d
walk into Coker’s study as if the place belonged to you. That’s you all
over—with your pluck!”
“You might hand me that stump.”
“Never mind that now. The trouble is, that I can’t come and lend you a hand
with the hamper, and it’s jolly heavy,” explained Bunter. “I’ve got to steer
clear of the whole thing, because of Quelch. You know how Quelch is down on me,
Smithy—all the fellows know. If I don’t get a good report this term, I’m done
for—so I don’t want Quelch making out that I snoop tuck, or anything of that
kind. If anything comes out, my name mustn’t be mentioned. You see that?”
“Quite!” grinned Smithy.
“I’ve got it all mapped out for you,” went on Bunter eagerly. “I can’t take a
hand in it—but I’m willing to do all the thinking and planning. I’ve got the
brains for it, you know.”
“Oh, scissors!”
“You keep an eye on Coker’s study. They’re sure to go down after tea. The study
will be empty. Well, you nip along to the study—.”
“I can see myself doing it!” agreed Smithy.
“The hamper will be there. But you couldn’t carry it off—it’s too heavy for one
chap. Perhaps I might be able to—but you couldn’t, old chap—you haven’t got my
muscle—.”
“Oh, holy smoke!” 
 “Only I’ve got to steer clear, as I said. Well, the hamper being so heavy, you
leave it alone. You collar Coker’s cricket bag—.”
“Do I?” chuckled Smithy.
“That’s it, old fellow. You cram it full of things from the hamper—as much as
it will hold, If it won’t hold the lot, never mind—a few things might be left
for Coker—after all, it’s Coker’s hamper,” said Bunter, generously. “I never was
mean. But pack in all you can, of course. Well, you carry off the stuff in the
cricket-bag. Nobody will be about after tea—but if there’s anybody, it won’t
look suspicious to be carrying a cricket bag—will it? You see, I’ve thought ‘it
all out for you!” said the astute Owl. “I’m pretty good at planning, you know.
All I need is some fellow to do the donkey work, if you know what I mean—I can
do the brain work.”
“I don’t quite know what you’d do it with,” remarked Smithy. “Is that the lot?”
“That’s the lot, old chap. Easy as falling off a form, and safe as houses. We
go halves in the tuck, when you get it to the box-room. Those chaps in No. 1
Study made out that they wouldn’t touch Coker’s stuff. Nothing of that sort
about you, is there, Smithy?”
“Eh!”
“I mean, you ain’t jolly particular in this study, are you, old fellow?”
Herbert Vernon-Smith gazed at him.
“Well, there you are,” said Bunter, briskly. “You’re not going to let me down,
are you, Smithy? They’ve let me down in Wharton’s study and if you let me down
too, I shall be stumped. What about it, Smithy? What do you think?”
Vernon-Smith rose from the armchair.
“I think you’re going to be stumped!” he said. And he picked up the cricket
stump from the corner of the study. 
“I—I say, Smithy, if you’re going to be a beast—I say, keep that stump away!”
roared Bunter. “I say—yarooooooh!”
Swipe!
“Ow! wow! Oh, crikey! I say—!”
Swipe!
“Yoo-hooop! Smithy, you beast—. Oh, crumbs! Ooooh!”
Billy Bunter hardly knew how many swipes he captured from the cricket stump
before he escaped from No. 4 Study.

CHAPTER XVI

THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED NOSE!

“HALLO,
hallo, hallo!”
“What?”
“Jolly old Henry!” said Bob Cherry.
“Oh!”
Five Greyfriars juniors, on Redclyffe Hill, looked dismayed. In a leafy, shady
lane, half-way up the hill, they had halted for a rest. They had been wheeling
their machines up the hill, which was a little steep. Five bicycles stood
against the wayside trees, and five juniors sat on a log under the branches,
taking a rest and whacking out a packet of toffee. Bob Cherry had risen to go
to his machine, when, glancing up the leafy lane that wound up the hillside, he
spotted in the distance a well-known lean, angular figure, coming down the lane
from Redclyffe. It was that of Mr. Quelch, the Remove master—to whom Bob
alluded irreverently as “Henry”.
“Copped!” remarked Frank Nugent.
Johnny Bull grunted.
“I told you fellows it was fatheaded to take a run out of bounds without asking
leave,” he remarked.
“We’re not copped yet, old beans,” said Bob. “Henry hasn’t spotted us. Get
those jiggers behind the trees: and get out of sight—unless Johnny wants us to
stand round while he tells us that he told us so.”
“Well, I did tell you so,” said Johnny. “And I think—.”
“Get a move on,” said Harry.
“The copfulness is not yet the foregone conclusion and
sine qua non
,” remarked
Hurree Jamset Ram Singh. “Buck upfully.”
Harry Wharton cast a quick look up the steep lane. A hat could be seen,
approaching, over hedges that bordered the winding lane. Whose hat it was,
Wharton could not have said, but Bob, apparently, had had a glimpse of the face
under the hat, in some opening of the hedges.
“Sure it’s Quelch, Bob?” asked the captain of the Remove.
“Either Quelch or a gargoyle,” answered Bob. “Can’t be a gargoyle walking down
Redclyffe Hill, can there?”
“Fathead!”
Five bicycles were hurriedly pushed behind gnarled old trunks. Five juniors
backed out of sight behind those trunks. If Quelch had not seen them yet, the
Famous Five were safe from discovery—the Remove master would pass them unseen
when he reached the spot.
Not that the chums of the Remove were up to any harm. They had gone out for a
spin on the bikes, and disregarded the circumstance that school bounds ended at
Courtfield Bridge. There really was no great harm in pushing on to
Redclyffe, and riding back by way of Redclyffe Wood. But schoolboys and
schoolmasters do not see eye to eye in such matters. If Quelch dropped on them
a mile out of school bounds, it would mean lines or detentions.
Quelch, evidently, had been for one of his long walks. Quelch was a tremendous
walker, and sometimes walked Mr. Prout or Mr. Capper or Mr. Hacker off their
hapless legs. This time Quelch was on his own, and seemed to have taken a
longer walk than usual. But he was coming down the hill at a good rate: and it
was lucky for the truants that Bob had spotted him at a safe distance. Very
soon after the five juniors were in cover, they heard his footsteps in the
lane.
“O.K.”, murmured Bob, cheerily. “Henry hasn’t a suspish—.”
“Unless he saw you—!” said Johnny Bull.
“He didn’t, ass.”
“Well, if he did, we’re copped. We’re asking for it,” grunted Johnny. “I told
you fellows, at Courtfield Bridge—.”
“The speech is silvery, my esteemed Johnny,” murmured the nabob of Bhanipur,
“but silence is the cracked pitcher that goes longest to the well.”
Johnny Bull grunted. But he said no more: the footsteps were close at hand now.
The juniors peered through the underwoods that screened them among the trees,
and sighted the tall, angular figure of the Remove master. To their great
relief, Mr. Quelch did not glance to the side of the lane where they were in
cover. Clearly he had no idea that five members of his form were
there—carefully understudying the shy violet, and keeping out of observation.
The tall, lean gentleman passed within a few feet of those members of his form,
and they almost held their breath as he passed. But he did not glance round,
and he swung on his way, his long legs covering the ground at a great rate.
‘All clear!” murmured Bob, as the footsteps grew fainter down the lane.
“The clearfulness is—!”
“Terrific!” chuckled Bob.
“Wait till he’s out of sight, though,” said Harry. “If he happened to look
round—can’t be too careful, with Quelch—.”
“True, O King! Hallo, hallo, hallo, here’s somebody else on the road!”
ejaculated Bob. “Some gent in a hurry.”
There was a patter of running feet.
A running man passed the thickets, and the juniors could all see him as he
passed: though he, like Quelch, evidently had no idea that they were there.
He wore a tattered coat too large for him, tattered trousers too small for him,
a blue-spotted neck-cloth badly in need of a wash, and a hat in the last stage
of wreck and decay. He had little close-set red-rimmed eyes, and a nose with a
list to port. There was a cudgel in his right hand— gripped hard, as if not for
carrying, but for intended use. A whiff of tobacco and spirits was wafted to
the schoolboys as he ran past.
“By gum!” murmured Bob. “That’s not a chap a fellow would like to meet on a
lonely road, on a dark night.”
Harry Wharton caught his breath.
“Is he after Quelch?” he exclaimed. “This is a pretty lonely lane—we’ve passed
nobody coming up—and it looks—!
“By gum!” said Bob, with a whistle.
Harry Wharton pushed hurriedly out into the lane from the thickets. He looked
after the man who had passed, whose pattering feet he could still hear.
The man was still running. At a distance, Mr. Quelch could still be seen—a view
of his back. And as the running man drew nearer to him, he swerved to the side
of the lane, and ran on the grass verge, so that his footsteps no longer gave a
sound—the pattering ceased to reach Wharton’s ears.
The captain of the Greyfriars Remove guessed what that meant. The man who was
following Quelch did not want the schoolmaster to hear him coming. There could
hardly be any doubt of his intentions.
The other fellows joined Wharton in the lane. They all stared down the lane at
the two distant figures—uneasily.
“Think he’s after Quelch?” asked Nugent.
“The thinkfulness is preposterous!” said Hurree Jamset Ram Singh, with a nod of
his dusky head.
“By gum!” breathed Bob. “Is that the man Bunter told us about last week—he got
Bunter in Friardale Lane, and Quelch came up and gave him toco—Bunter said he
had a twisted nose and red eyes—!”
“He’s after Quelch, anyhow,” said Harry. “I fancy it’s the same man, from
Bunter’s description—anyhow he’s after Quelch. He’s taking care that Quelchy
doesn’t hear him behind him—you can see that.”
“Bunter said that Quelch swiped him with his walking-stick,” said Johnny Bull.
“The blighter ran for it. Quelch can handle him all right.”
“Not if that fellow gets him from behind,” said Harry, his eyes anxiously on
the two distant figures. “It looks to me—.”
The tall figure of Henry Samuel Quelch passed out of sight beyond a winding
bend of the lane. A moment later, the running figure was out of sight, hidden
by winding hedges.
The juniors exchanged glances.
“Run out the bikes—quick!” breathed Wharton. “We can’t chance it—it looks as if
that ruffian is after Quelch—we can’t leave him to it. If there’s nothing in
it, we get nailed for breaking bounds, but—but—we can’t chance Quelch getting
his nut cracked from behind—.”
“Quick!” said Bob.
The chums of the Remove jumped to the bicycles. Every appearance was that the
man with the twisted no
se
was following Quelch to attack him,
whether from motives of robbery or malice: and at the risk of getting “nailed”
for breaking school bounds, the juniors could not leave it at that.
The bicycles were run quickly out into the lane, and the Famous Five jumped
into their saddles. With a rush and a whirr, they swept down the hill in a
whizzing bunch.