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"Crikey", Bunter ejaculated.
"It's all changed at Greyfriars. And if you ask me ..."
"We're not asking you !!," dueted Harry Wharton and Bob Cherry.
"The not asking of the esteemed Bunter is terrific," piped Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
"Well if you ask me" the fat Owl blundered on, "Greyfriars is just not the same without me. It’s atrophied and you're all quite clearly gloomy and depressed ...
"No we're not," they hurrahed, as one.
"... and it's all gone downhill and I think it was all a terrible mistake to sack me," Bunter blubbed.
“Don’t talk rot,” Harry exclaimed.
Bunter had been expelled two years ago to the day. It had been a sorry business and even those in the Remove who didn't like him very much felt sorry for the blinking oaf - but not for very long and not with much sincerity. It had, after all, been all his fault and they never really liked him.
"Put a sock in it you fat villain," laughed Bob Cherry. "You can't blame anyone else and you had it coming for ages."
It had been the biggest scandal ever at Greyfriars. And it hadn’t just swept Bunter away with it. It was such a big scandal that in the end the Head - Herbert H. Locke, M.A - and the Chairman of School Governors - Lord Pleinportefeuille - had had to resign.
People even wondered whether it was the end of Greyfriars.
It had all started when Bunter fell over his words in an early morning viva voce exam; he got his "mensa" muddled up with his "mens/mentis" which no-one would normally have worried about, still less been surprised at. He did it all the time.
Bunter's extensive talents did not stretch to remembering exactly what he'd heard and repeating it just so - and he never saw the point of notes.
In fact, he couldn't see the problem with filling in the bits he couldn't remember properly with stuff he’d made up for himself and after all "hic" wasn't that much different from "haec" and who cared what "hoc" meant anyway, it was all Latin which was Greek to him.
The problem was, he didn't leave it there with his viva voce muddle - partly because he expected a whacking for making what even he knew was a dog's breakfast of the first and third declensions.
"Well that's what Quelchy told me ..." he'd squeaked, waving his podgy hands around.
"Are you sure ?" the examining beak had glowered over his spectacles.
"Yes. Yes. I swear. I distinctly remember him telling me. Look. Here’s a note I made," Bunter blinked, pulling out a piece of scrappy paper he’d written on not ten minutes earlier.
"In that case ..." the corvine pedagogue drew himself up to his full height. "In that case, Mr Quelch is for the high jump."
"O crikey," squealed Bunter, starting to wonder ever so slightly at what he'd done. But not for long because in the end all he ever wanted to do was to get people into trouble.
One thing led to another and before very long Quelch decided he'd had enough and went to reside with his sister in Whitstable where the shame of being thought of as a beak who taught Latin that he probably knew was wrong could be kept at bay.
Though it was only after that happened, when it was too late, that everyone realised that what they'd suspected at the time was true. That Mr Quelch had indeed shared with Bunter the secrets of the first and third declensions . But that it wasn't him who had got his "mensa" mixed up with his "mens/mentis" but Bunter.
And that Bunter probably knew it was wrong.
There was an inquiry and heads rolled – including Bunter’s – but two years on, that didn't stop the removed Owl of the Remove glowering at Harry Wharton and Bob Cherry and Hurree Jamset Ram Singh and wailing over the whole sorry business.
"Oh really you fellows, listen here. It wasn't my fault ..."
"Oh yes it was," they chorused again.
"Listen you burbling bandersnatch" snarled Harry Wharton, "I remember telling you quite clearly ... all you had to do was write a script and stick to it. Just write down what Quelchy told you – on your cuff if need be – and make sure you trotted it out word for word in the viva …”
"But .. but ... but ..." Bunter butted.
"What was so hard about that ???" chimed in Bob Cherry.
"… and not make it up. I even checked it for you !", added Harry.
"All you had to do was stick to it," stichomythised Cherry.
"The sticking to the script of the estimable fat Owl was not terrific," added Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
"You're beasts. Just beasts. You should have stopped me saying "mensa" when I meant "mentis" and stopped me getting muddled with "mensarum" and "mentibus". You know I haven't got a clue what it all means," Bunter snivelled pitifully.
"How could we have stopped you, you frabjous chump ?" Harry ejaculated.
“And … and … and anyway. I didn’t mean it was THAT Quelch who told me. It was the other Quelch…” burbled Bunter.
“Which Quelch ?” quizzed Cherry
“My … my … my … uncle Quelch. The one who died in the Boer War ...” essayed the blinking strigiforme.
“They should have known I didn’t mean THAT Quelch !.”
“You fat fraud …” chimed Cherry. ”The Boer War was before you were born. And you haven’t got an uncle Quelch.”
"Boo hoo, boo hoo ..." wailed Bunter going limp. And then. "No. Listen. I'll tell you what it was. It was that bully Coker. If he hadn't made such a blessed row about it all then Quelchy would never have ..."
"Oh go and eat coke. " Harry Wharton drawled, "you've got no-one to blame but yourself. You just can't admit it.
"If you'd just remembered your words ..." chipped in Bob Cherry.
"The forgetfulness of the esteemed Bunter was terrific," added Hurree Jamset Ram Singh.
"You're like sheep's heads you know - nearly all jaw," Bunter squealed.
“Right – you’re for it. Come on chaps, let’s rag him,” exhorted Wharton, springing erect.
“The ragging of the esteemed Bunter will be terrific,” enthused Huree Jamset Ram Singh.
“Yaroo. Yaroo. I say you beasts …” hollered the podgy Owl. But deep inside, he was secretly satisfied that someone at Greyfriars was at last paying him some attention.
With apologies to Frank Richards.
Kevin
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