Bunter the Caravanner - Friardale

'I'm going!' growled Johnny Bull: and he went. Frank Nugent and
Hurree Jamset Ram Singh followed. Harry Wharton paused in the
doorway.
'Look here, Bob, come on! If Bunter's too jolly lazy to pump his
machine, he can ride it flat.'
'Oh, just a tick!' said Bob, good nature still prevailing. 'It
won't take me half as long as it would that fat ditherer.'
Bob wielded the pump with a vigorous hand.
'Now, you fat ass, it's ready,' he said, 'or do you want me to
lift you on it, and hold you there?'
'Yah!' retorted Bunter: no doubt by way of thanks for services
rendered. And all being ready now, he wheeled out his machine
after the Famous Five, and they started.
For a couple of miles, all went well. Even the plumpest and
laziest member of the Greyfriars community did not find it too
much exertion to keep going on a level road.
But on the slope of Redclyffe Hill, it was another story.
Then the fat Owl began to puff and blow.
It was Billy Bunter's fixed belief that he could do anything
that any other fellow could do, and probably a little better. It
was when he came to do it that he woke up, as it were. After the
first hundred yards or so of that rise, only the prospect of
joining in the spread at the Arcade in Lantham could keep
Bunter's little fat legs pedalling. After another hundred yards
or so, even that prospect failed.
'I say, you fellows!' came a howl behind the Famous Five.
Bob Cherry looked round.
'What's the trouble?' he called back.
'Look here, let's walk the bikes up this hill.'
'Oh, my hat! We haven't come out for a walk, old fat man - we're
riding. Put your beef into it. You've got lots.'
'Beast! I'm jolly well going to walk it!' howled Bunter.
'Oh, come on, fatty, if you're coming!' called out Harry
Wharton.
'Shan't!'
'Cheerio, then.'
'Beast!'
Billy Bunter dismounted. He was not going to pedal up Redclyffe
Hill. It really was not a tremendous hill, and the other fellows
took it in their stride, as it were. They pushed on. With the
selfishness to which Bunter was sadly accustomed, they did not
want to turn a ride into a walk: somehow or other, walking the
bikes for two or three miles did not seem to appeal to them.
They whizzed on and disappeared over the brow of the hill in the
distance.
A disgruntled fat Owl pushed on, on his own, shoving at his
bike. It seemed to Billy Bunter hours and hours, if not days and
days, before he reached the top of that hill. By that time, the
Famous Five had long vanished from sight. But from that point,
it was easier going, and the fat Owl prepared to remount.