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

BILLY BUNTER’S Big Top
SNORE!
That deep, resonant sound proceeded from the blue-and-red painted caravan
on Courtfield Common.
Had any Remove man been near that caravan as the deep snore rumbled
from it, that Remove man would have hazarded a guess that William George
Bunter, of the Remove, was inside that van.
And the Remove man would have guessed correctly.
Snore!
Although there were no Greyfriars ears to hear, there were many other ears.
Five or six persons belonging to the circus had gathered about the steps of
the caravan, listening in surprise and wonder.
Snorrrr!
‘He’s going it!’ remarked George Mix, the attendant who handled the
refreshments, more commonly known in the circus as ‘Chocklitz.’
‘He are!’ agreed Slaney.
‘Never heard the boss kicking up a row like that before,’ said Samson.
‘It was that tea he ate,’ said George Mix. ‘Never knowed the governor to stow
it away like that afore. He came back ’ungry after his swim.’
Snorrrrr!
Mr. Dance came out of the staff entrance of the big tent. Outside it, he looked
irritable and cross.
Mr. Dance had enough to do, in the way of general utility work, supervising
the staff, acting as ringmaster in the afternoons, and so forth, without having
the evening performance thrown on his hands. Mr. Dance’s opinion was that it
was too thick.
He came over to the van scowling.
‘Is the boss awake yet?’ he rapped out.
‘No, sir. Listen to him!’ said George Mix.
Snorrrr!
Mr. Dance snorted.
‘Well, it’s the big equestrian turn next, and the boss is sure to want to take that
on. He’d better be woken up.’
Mr. Dance, intensely irritated, opened the door of the van. The interior was
quite dark. Night had fallen on Courtfield Common, only the lights of the circus
illuminating the scene. They did not penetrate into the interior of the blue and
red caravan. There the darkness was intense; and from the darkness came
the rumbling, reverberating snore from the recumbent figure on Mr. Whiffles’
bed.
‘Mr. Whiffles!’ shouted Dance.
Snore!
The manager entered the van. He dimly discerned the recumbent figure on
the bed, bent over it, and grasped its shoulder and shook it.
Snore!
Shake! Shake! Shake!
Mr. Dance was warming to it now. He was going to wake up Mr. Whiffles,
whatever happened. Shaking him by the shoulder seemed futile. Mr. Dance
decided on tugging at his hair. As it was dark in the van it would be easy to
explain, when Mr. Whiffles awoke, that he had grasped the hair by mistake.
With a determined grip Dance fixed his fingers in the long, curly hair of the
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