Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School and Billy Bunter's ... by Frank Richards Page A

the
“sack”? They couldn’t sack a man for dodging games practice, or cutting
detention, or snooping tuck, or handing out a rotten “con”, or nodding off in
class! What did the beast mean?
Bunter felt a cold chill trickle down his spine.
He had realised that there was something unusual in the air. Was that it? His
fat knees knocked together.
“Oh!” be gasped. “I—I say, sir—oh, crikey!”
“I have lately received a letter from your father, Bunter. He expresses the
deepest dissatisfaction with your midterm report.”
“Does he, sir!” ejaculated Bunter. “I—I—I say, I—I hope it was a good report,
sir!”
“It was a very bad report, Bunter.”
Billy Bunter breathed hard through his fat little nose. He could guess that Mr.
Bunter, at home, would be made waxy by a very bad report. But whose fault was
that? It was his form-master who made out the report. Quelch seemed to be
blaming Bunter for what he had done himself!
“Mr. Bunter expresses the opinion that you seem to be deriving very little
benefit from Greyfriars,” said Mr. Quelch. “I cannot but agree with him. I have
therefore decided to advise him, very strongly, to take you away from the
school.”
“Oh, crikey!” gasped Bunter.
“I have no doubt that Mr. Bunter will act upon such advice—.”
“Oh, lor’!”
“And that the present term will be your last here—.”
“Ow!”
“You will be given one more chance, Bunter—.”
“Oh!” Bunter recovered a little.
“I advise you to listen to me very carefully, to weigh my words, and to
remember them,” said Mr. Quelch, quietly but grimly. “At the end of the present
term, your term’s report will go to your father. If it is a bad report, as
before, it will be accompanied by a letter to Mr. Bunter, expressing my views,
in the strongest terms, that it will be quite useless for you to return to
Greyfriars next term.”
“B-b-b-but——!” stuttered Bunter, “I—I don’t want to—to leave Greyfriars, sir!
I—I—I—oh, crumbs!”
“If you do not desire to leave Greyfriars, Bunter, you have time to amend your
conduct, and show such improvement as will justify me in sending your father a
good report.”
Bunter blinked at him. Quelch, apparently, saw a lot of room for improvement in
Bunter. Bunter did not see it himself. But he knew that it was futile to argue
with a beak: so he said nothing.
“I shall hope,” said Mr. Quelch, “that you will make the necessary effort,
Bunter.”
“Oh! Yes, sir!” mumbled Bunter.
“If I find,” said Mr. Quelch, “that you are careful and attentive in class,
that you are assiduous in games—if I hear nothing further of purloining food in
the studies—if, in short, you make a sincere effort to mend your ways, Bunter,
and become a credit to your form instead of a disgrace to it—in that case,
Bunter, I shall feel justified in giving you a good report. If not”—Quelch’s
voice took on a deep rumble—“if not, Bunter, when you go home at the end of the
term, you will not return here.”
“Oh!” gasped Bunter.
“The outcome,” said Mr. Quelch, “depends entirely on yourself. I shall observe
you very carefully during the remaining weeks of the term. You have ample time
and opportunity to do better than you have done hitherto. Take full advantage
of it, Bunter—otherwise you leave Greyfriars. That is all! You may now go.”
Billy Bunter almost tottered from the study.
    CHAPTER X
    FOR IT!
    “HALLO, hallo, hallo!”
“Here he is!”
“Where’s that cake, you fat villain?”
“Scalp him!”
“Scalp him baldheadfully!”
Five voices were in unison. Harry Wharton, Frank Nugent, Bob Cherry, Johnny
Bull and Hurree Jamset Ram Singh, all speaking at once, gathered round Billy
Bunter. They found him in the Rag: and judging by their words, and their looks,
the immediate slaughter of William George Bunter was the next item on the
programme.
Bunter did not speak. He did not stir. He just sat where he was, his ample
proportions filling the