Billy Bunter's Benefit By Frank Richards - Friardale

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Billy Bunter’s Benefit By Frank Richards He had had no time for Stage Club business lately—no time for anything but that rotten “book.” The other members seemed more than willing to let things slide—indeed, he was no longer on speaking terms with two of them—Potter and Greene, formerly his bosom pals. It looked as if the masterly performance of “Hamlet,” with Coker in the title-role, might never come off at all that term—while that gang of cheeky fags, who called themselves a Dramatic Society, were getting on with it actively, and had already announced the date of the performance. Scrubby little rascals, passing Coker of the Fifth by, like the idle wind which they regarded not! However, Coker was going to put paid to that, somehow. He did not yet know how: but he was quite determined that they weren’t going to get by with it. But he did not think of charging into the Rag, and dealing with the young rascals as they deserved. Even Coker had had enough of these tactics. And he did not want another book from Prout! He went into the House at last, and up to his study, to have another grind at that awful book. Prout was very shirty with him these days, and was quite capable of cutting up rusty if that book was not handed in soon. Impots were sometimes doubled when they were handed in very late: and the bare thought of the Second Book, added to the First, made Coker feel quite faint. Potter and Greene were in the study, and Coker gave them an expressive glance as he came in. They were in flannels, having just come in from the cricket. They were in the Fifth-form eleven, which rather irritated Coker. The great Horace was conscious of being a cricketer second to none. Nobody, however, knew this, excepting Coker: and he had no more chance of figuring in the Form eleven than in a Test match. Duds like Potter and Greene were picked, while a man who could have played their heads off was passed by unregarded! Potter was sprawling in the window-seat, Greene in the armchair, and both were refreshing themselves with ginger- beer, while they discussed the afternoon’s play. They paused as Coker came in, and looked at him. They were quite ready to “come round” if Coker revealed symptoms of amity: especially as it was nearly tea-time. But Coker revealed no such symptoms. Coker’s look was grim. His glance at Potter and Greene indicated his view that they were practically worms, or microbes, or germs, unworthy of his notice. He sat down at the study table, propped P. Vergilius Maro against the inkstand, dipped pen in ink, and resumed his labours, which really Page 102 of 161
Billy Bunter’s Benefit By Frank Richards seemed to him like those of Sisyphus with no visible end. The hapless Horace, after all his toil, had arrived at “At pius Aeneas, per noctem plurima volvens”: hardly half of what he had to do. Coker was not in the least interested in the pious Aeneas, or what he was revolving in his mind nocturnally: to Coker’s powerful intellect it was just so much tosh that he had to write out for Prout—merely that, and nothing more. Wearily he recommenced: and Potter and Greene, having exchanged a wink behind Coker’s burly back, resumed their conversation. “It was rotten luck,” remarked Potter. “Hilton ought to have taken that ball. Wingate would have been out.” “A perfect sitter,” agreed Greene. “Rotten luck for you, old man.” “I mean to says, what’s the good of a man putting up good bowling, if they go to sleep in the field and drop easy catches,” said Potter. “I had Wingate on toast if that ass Hilton had had his eyes open.” “Too jolly slack, that chap,” said Greene. “When the field lets a bowler down, it’s pretty sickening,” said Potter. “It ought to have been Wingate caught Hilton bowled Potter, and then that lackadaisical ass misses a catch that Bunter of the Remove could have taken—a perfect sitter—.” Coker glanced round over a burly shoulder. “I’m doing lines,” he hooted. “That’s all right—we’re not stopping you, are we?” asked Potter. “I can’t write out this tosh with jaw going on in both ears! Shut up.” “Look here, Coker—.” “I said shut up.” Coker turned back to his lines, breathing hard. It was bad enough to have to sit there grinding out lines, without a lot of senseless cackle going on to interrupt and confuse him. That was Coker’s view. Potter and Greene, on the other hand, saw no adequate reason why they shouldn’t talk, in their own study, if the spirit moved them to do so. “Blundell’s too jolly easy-going,” went on Potter, just as if Horace Coker hadn’t spoken. “I wouldn’t play Hilton in a Form match. He’s good enough when be likes—but how often does he like?” “Not often,” agreed Greene. “Dropping a catch like that, you know—.” Coker rose from the table. “Are you chattering asses going to shut up?” he asked. “If not, I’m going to shut you up. I can tell you I’m pretty fed up with you anyhow. Cut the cackle!” “Can’t we talk cricket if we like?” demanded Potter. “Fat lot you know about cricket!” said Coker, derisively. “Blundell’s an ass, Page 103 of 161
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