Billy Bunter's Benefit By Frank Richards - Friardale

Billy Bunter’s Benefit
By Frank Richards
It was Wednesday afternoon. Coker had spent most of that half-holiday
in his study, grinding out lines for Prout.
But at last—at long last!—that awful “book” was done. Seven hundred and
fifty-six lines had, at last, piled up on Coker’s table, the whole of the
first book of the Aeneid from “arma virumque cano” to “fluctibus Aestas.”
It had occupied all Coker’s leisure for days. It had driven cricket, and
“Hamlet,” and almost everything else, from Coker’s mind. It had made him
feel that life at Greyfriars was a delusion and a snare: that all was weary,
stale, flat, and unprofitable. But it was done, at last, and Coker wearily
gathered it up, and conveyed it to Prout’s study, and was through with it.
After which, feeling the need of fresh air after his exertions, and having
business in Courtfield, Coker took a walk abroad. He took that walk on his
own, without a word to Potter or Greene.
The estrangement was continuing. Coker was maintaining an attitude of
lofty, frozen dignity and distance. Potter and Greene, on the other hand,
could not help feeling that the rift in the lute had gone far enough.
Certainly, they weren’t going to back Coker up in rows with the Remove.
But they sagely considered that that “book” from Prout must have cured
Coker of any desire for further shindies in the Rag. Certainly, too, they
weren’t going to do Coker’s lines for him. But those lines were now done—
the book finished and delivered to Prout.
In these circumstances, there was no reason why the estrangement
should continue: and old Horace, after all, was a pal!
Moreover, they had heard Coker’s remark to Fitzgerald that he was going
to Chunkley’s that afternoon, if he got that “book” done before tea.
That did it! Chunkley’s Stores, at Courtfield, provided everything, from
lawn-mowers and vacuum-cleaners to top-hats and tinned peaches. Best of
all, it had a tea-room on magnificent and imposing lines, where, in happier
and more friendly days, Coker had often stood munificent spreads to his
friends.
Potter and Greene had no doubt that Coker was going to tea at
Chunkley’s, as he often did on a half-holiday. When Coker tea’d at
Chunkley’s, he was a fellow worth knowing. On such an occasion Potter and
Greene were prepared to overlook all differences, and to remember only
that old Horace was a pal.
They were lounging, as it were by chance, in the old stone gateway, when
Coker came out. Potter ventured upon a friendly smile—Green nodded. If
Coker wanted his friends to walk down to Chunkley’s with him, they
were—ready and willing.
Apparently, however, Coker didn’t. After the combined Operation of
frowning and sniffing, Coker walked on regardless. His friends exchanged
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