BILLY BUNTER'S Big Top Page 1 of 97 - Friardale

BILLY BUNTER’S Big Top
‘I’m going to make a change. Look out!’
There was a grin among the circus hands, looking on from a little distance.
Mr. Dance was not popular, having a sharp tongue, which he used freely. Mr.
Whiffles was liked—and liked more than ever now. The second edition of
Montgomery St. Leger Whiffles was liked more than the first edition now that
he had set down the manager before the grinning hands.
There was a rattle of hoofs and wheels; the trap had returned from Courtfield,
Bunter sat down in Mr. Whiffles’ chair with great dignity. George brought in the
supplies. There was not room on Mr. Whiffles’ table for all of them. But the
supply rapidly diminished as Billy Bunter attacked the good things. Jam-tarts
went down like oysters. Cream puffs vanished as if by magic. Meringues
disappeared faster than the eye could follow them. Bunter used a table-spoon
for the jam. Goods of this kind he liked to take on board in bulk. Preserved
fruits went down after the Jam, and strawberries and cream followed in
pursuit, and preserved ginger followed close in the wake of the strawberries.
But there were still many things left when Bunter felt he could do no more. He
was toying with a cake when he rang the bell for George. But he could only
toy with it. For once Bunter had had enough, and actually left something
uneaten on the table. It was a day of wonders.
The eyes of George Mix almost bulged from his head as he witnessed the
havoc Bunter had wrought in the supplies. Where Mr. Whiffles had put it all
perplexed George. Mr. Whiffles always had a good appetite, to which, no
doubt, he largely owed his circumference. But Mr. Whiffles had never
performed a Gargantuan feat like this before. George Mix almost expected to
see the guv’nor burst all over the caravan. Bunter had unfastened a couple of
the buttons of Mr. Whiffles’ waistcoat. His breathing was rather hard and
laboured. Otherwise, he showed no sign of damage. There were some things
that Billy Bunter could do really well. Disposing of a spread was one of them.
In that line Bunter was always an easy first, and the rest nowhere.
‘You can clear the table, George,’ said Bunter.
George cleared the table and departed like a man in a dream. Bunter leaned
back in his chair and breathed hard. He had done himself well—remarkably
well. Indeed, he almost felt as if he had overdone it.
Certainly, he was disinclined for exertion. He gazed out of the doorway of the
van at the summer sun sinking behind Friardale woods in the distance. It was
lock-up at Greyfriars now, Bunter, added to his many other sins, was missing
calling-over. But the thought of getting back to Greyfriars was too unpleasant.
Trouble awaited him there. Trouble could not be put off too late. His exploits
that afternoon had earned him, at the very least, a Head’s flogging. A Head’s
flogging did not attract Bunter back to the school.
Bunter sighed, partly with repletion, partly at the thought of how ripping it
would be if he could keep this game up. Life at Greyfriars was nothing to this!
If only that beast Whiffles kept away for good!
Bunter blinked at the setting sun. It would not be dark for a couple of hours
yet, and he had quite made up his mind that Mr. Whiffles could not return
before dark. In fact, if he could have done so, he would have been at the
circus before this—and he had not come. There was plenty of time yet. Bunter
was tired; the stowing away of the cargo be had disposed of would have tired
any man. He rose from the chair, rolled over to Mr. Whiffles’ bed, and
stretched himself luxuriously there.
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