Read Online Grantchester Grind by Tom Sharpe - Free Book Online Page A

archaeology. Like dealing with the Fuggers.’
    But even the Bursar was beginning to get annoyed. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said

    coldly.
    Mr Skundler looked up at him very suspiciously. ‘What for?’ he asked.
    This time it was Kudzuvine’s turn to intervene and pacify things. ‘Just because the

    Prof isn’t computer-literate don’t mean you got to call him that. Old guy can’t help

    it.’
    ‘Call him what, for fucksake?’
    ‘You know. You’ve just used it again.’
    ‘Used it again? You mean…’ The light dawned. ‘I didn’t call him a fucker. What’s he done I

    got to call him that? _Fugger,_ dummy, F-U-G-G-E-R-S. Kraut bankers way back in the

    Dark Ages. Like…like the Crusades or something. Used quills. Jesus, what a way to run a

    business. Got to catch a fucking goose every time you make an entry. You use a–’ But

    something about the look on the Bursar’s face stopped the question. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he

    said instead and opened the first ledger. ‘Just hope you’re into double entry.’
    The Bursar hit back. As a matter of fact we are,’ he said. And what’s more we don’t use

    quills.’
    Mr Skundler pushed his blue glasses up onto his forehead and ran his eyes down the pages

    for several minutes, while the Bursar sat and glared at him, and Kudzuvine peered over his

    shoulder at the figures. It was clear they were having difficulty believing what they

    were seeing. Finally Skundler looked up.
    ‘I got to tell you something, Professor Bursar,’ he said in a tone that was almost

    kindly, ‘I got to tell you. With figures like these you’re wasting your time You don’t need

    double entry. This is all one way. Like financially temperaturewise it’s absolute

    zero.’ He shook his head. ‘I never seen like it since Maxwell took a swim in the sea some

    place.’
    ‘Don’t you mean BCCI?’ asked Kudzuvine. ‘They buried Maxwell Mount Olive.’
    ‘Popeye,’ said Skundler. ‘Of Olives. O fucking F, for Chrissake.’
    In his chair the Bursar looked on miserably. All his hopes had been dashed. ‘I’m very

    sorry,’ he said, ‘but there you are. We are a very poor college and I’m obviously wasting

    your time…’
    Skundler raised a hand. ‘Wasting our time? Professor Baby, you are not wasting our time

    one microsecond. You need us. That’s what we are here for. You’re not wasting our time. I

    haven’t seen anything better than this since the Berlin Wall came down. Suddenly it’s

    freedom all the way for guys like Soros.’
    ‘Really?’ said the Bursar. ‘How very interesting. You do mean Soros the financier who

    sold sterling…? Oh well, never mind. You actually think Mr Hartang will provide some

    funding for Porterhouse?’ He said it uncertainly and Kudzuvine laid a kindly though

    heavy hand on his shoulder.
    ‘Think, Professor Bursar? We don’t think–and I heard that, Skundler–we know. The thing is

    wrapped up right now.’
    ‘Shrinkwise,’ said Skundler, ’solid plastic You’ve got it made, no question.’
    ‘Well, there is just one question,’ said the Bursar, feeling suddenly extremely

    happy and confident. ‘I mean…I mean why should Mr Hartang be so very generous?’
    ‘Generous?’ said Skundler. ‘Of course he’s generous. He’s got rich being generous.

    He’s a philanthropist.’
    ‘He’s that too,’ Kudzuvine agreed, ‘though since he had that heart coronary thing he’s had

    to go easy on the girls. Takes it out of him. I said to him one time, “Mr Hartang you want to

    go easy. Take it the Clinton way like they’re on their fucking knees praying to the

    thing.”‘
    ‘Well, I must say…’ the Bursar began but Skundler stopped him.
    ‘Don’t. It’s better not to with K.K. around. Like he gets everything wrong. It’s because

    he’s a moron.’
    ‘Mormon,’ said Kudzuvine. ‘It’s got an M in it.’
    ‘See what! mean?’ Skundler said to the Bursar. ‘Like ignorance is a religion