Bunter Comes for Christmas by Frank Richards

Author:Frank Richards [Richards, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0100-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

NARROW ESCAPE

BILLY BUNTER woke.

The first glimmer of a grey December dawn was peeping in at the cobwebby attic window.

There was a creak from the old bedstead, as the fat Owl sat up and rubbed his eyes, and blinked in the dimness, from his dusky corner.

Seldom, or never, had Billy Bunter awakened so early.

At Greyfriars he was wont to snore till the rising-bell clanged--and later: often till a whizzing pillow, or a jerk at his bedclothes, brought him out of the land of dreams. In holiday time he was accustomed to much later rising.

But even in slumber, Bunter realized he was hungry. He awakened ravenous. There was an aching void inside his fat circumference which banished slumber.

He had made himself fairly comfortable for the night.

His overcoat was spread over the old bedstead for a mattress. Quilt and blankets rolled round his fat person kept him warm. But for the fact that he had gone supperless to bed, Bunter might have slept on till almost any hour in the morning. But that aching void did it! Epimenides himself couldn't have slept so soundly, had he been as hungry as Bunter.

There had been quite a pile of apples, oranges, and bananas. Not a single one remained. Bunter was not the fellow to leave anything eatable uneaten. But now he rather wished that he had left something over.

But there was nothing--nothing at all, unless he made a breakfast of apple-peel, orange-peel, or banana skins. And he was feeling that he could easily dispose of a complete turkey, followed by an out-size in Christmas puddings.

'Oh, crikey!' mumbled Bunter.

The old bedstead creaked, as he rolled off it.

He had slept in his clothes, and had a rumpled and dishevelled look. That was not bothering him. Breakfast was the pressing consideration. It was, in fact, a matter of which the importance could not possibly be exaggerated. A fellow had to eat--especially a fellow named William George Bunter.

It was Bunter's happy way to take chances, and trust to luck. Luck had befriended him so far. He still hoped for the best. Something might turn up in his favour. In the meantime, he realized that he had to keep 'doggo'. But, even at the risk of discovery, followed by the painful process of booting, he had to eat! On that point there was no doubt: not possible, probable shadow of doubt, no possible doubt whatever!

With a cautious fat hand, he opened the attic door, and peered out on a dim shadowy stair.

Exactly what hour it was, he did not know, as his watch was not a going concern. But he knew it was very early--awfully early.

If the household was not yet astir, there was a chance of annexing foodstuffs from somewhere. He had to take that chance, or face a hungry day: which was hardly to be thought of!

On tiptoe, he crept down the attic stair.

The corridor was shadowy and silent: all doors closed.

None of the Greyfriars party was up, as yet. He tiptoed along to Harry Wharton's 'den' at the other end of the corridor.

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