Billy Bunter in Brazil by Frank Richards

Author:Frank Richards [Richards, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Charles Skilton Ltd
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Billy Bunter almost forgot to be terrified in his growing astonishment. He drew his fat head back into cover, but curiosity impelled him to put it out again. The assistant-manager was still at the same task.

Apparently he was copying out those few lines over and over again, making innumerable copies. It was utterly inexplicable, for if Mr Funcho wanted copies of a letter, he had the typewriter and carbons at hand. His action, in fact, was more like that of one copying a picture than copying a letter. Yet it was a written letter that was pinned up in front of him, at which he continually glanced.

Slowly, it dawned upon the fat Owl’s astonished mind, what the assistant-manager was really doing. He was not copying the last few lines of a letter over and over again. That was meaningless. He was copying the signature!

That, being the only possible explanation of Mr Funcho’s mysterious proceedings, penetrated at last into Bunter’s fat intellect.

And, as he realised it, Bunter popped back into cover, and did not venture to put his fat head out again. It made him feel cold all over.

Obviously, Mr Funcho was not copying his own signature. That was unthinkable. He was copying somebody else’s. What signature it was, Bunter did not know — he had made out the lines of writing, but not the words. But he knew now what it meant. A man who shuttered his windows, lighted a lamp in the daytime, and sat down to copy a signature over and over again, could have but one intention — to acquire skill and facility in imitating that signature.

If he discovered Bunter now —!

Bunter’s fat knees knocked together in terror. He had feared the man’s savage temper if he found him there — but now —. What would he do, if he found Bunter, and guessed that the fat junior had seen him practising the imitation of another man’s signature? Bunter perspired at the thought.

Would he never go, and give the unhappy Owl a chance to escape? He had been at his strange task more than half an hour, in the hot and stuffy room. Yet there was no sign that he intended to go.

“Bom!” Bunter heard him mutter again. He knew now why Martinho Funcho said” Good!” He was satisfied with his success in reproducing another man’s signature.

Then, suddenly, there was the scrape of a chair, as it was pushed back, and Martinho Funcho jumped to his feet. For a dreadful moment, Bunter feared that he had somehow divined that someone else was in the room. Then he realised that there was a sound of loud shouting from the direction of the river. Something unusual was happening at the desembarcadouro. Martinho, startled, stood listening — and Bunter could only hope that the disturbance, whatever it was, would draw him out of doors.

The roar of voices increased in volume, so that, in spite of the distance, words emerged audibly from the hubbub.

“O Corvo! O Corvo!”

A loud, sharp exclamation, almost a cry, came from Martinho Funcho.

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