Billy Bunter's Benefit By Frank Richards - Friardale

Billy Bunter’s Benefit
By Frank Richards
Smithy had been talking with his chum, Tom Redwing, in the quad, after
class. He left Redwing frowning, when he went down to the gates. Billy
Bunter, whose eyes and spectacles had been on them, rolled after him.
“Stop a minute, Smithy!” he squeaked.
The Bounder disappeared out of the gates. Billy Bunter accelerated, and
rolled out in pursuit.
Smithy was strolling down the road with quite a casual air. No master or
prefect who had noticed him would have guessed, from his aspect, that he
was going to see a man about a horse. Still, he did not want attention to
be specially drawn to him, and his eyes glinted as he heard a yell astern!
“Hold on, Smithy.”
Breathing hard, the Bounder held on, for Bunter to come up. A fat Owl
squeaking in his wake was particularly unwelcome, when he was heading
for the “Three Fishers,” to call upon Joe Banks.
“What do you want, you fat frog?” he snapped, as Bunter arrived
breathless.
“I say, old chap, I know where you’re going—.”
“Eh?”
“I heard what you said to Redwing,” explained Bunter.
“You hear too much with those fat ears of yours, Bunter,” said the
Bounder. “Aren’t you afraid of getting them pulled?”
“Oh, really, Smithy. I say, nothing to be shirty about, old chap! It wasn’t
my fault Bob Cherry stuffed Sporting Snips down your neck, was it? He,
he, he!” Bunter chuckled. “I say, Smithy, I want you to do something for
me.”
“Ask somebody else, fathead.”
“Eh! Nobody else is going to the ‘Three Fishers’ to see Banks, that I know
of. You see, I want to be on for the two-thirty on Saturday.”
“Wha-a-t?”
The Bounder stared at Billy Bunter. Bunter bestowed a fat wink on him.
As he was aware that Smithy was going to call on the frowsy racing man
at the riverside inn, it seemed to Bunter that this was the solution of the
problem that had caused him a spot of bother with Quelch in class.
“I’m on Spanker,” explained Bunter. “He’s going to romp home on
Saturday, at four to one—Snipster says so, and he knows, you know. Well,
look here, Smithy, will you put the bet on for me when you see Banks?”
“You benighted idiot!”
“You see, I don’t know Banks, and you do,” said Bunter, “and—and I’d
rather not got to a place like that pub. Not the sort of place a decent
chap would like to go to, you know. But you don’t mind, Smithy.”
“What?”
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