Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire (6 page)

It had been a long night and presently they began to doze off.

‘Just think,' yawned Mr Gum. ‘This time tomorrow we'll be kinging it up in France an' smashin' things in!'

‘Yeah,' yawned Billy William. ‘An' throwin' entrails all over Paris an' . . .'

‘Billy,' said Mr Gum sleepily, ‘make sure that lid's put down tight on that tin, me old flip-flop. We don't want none of that money escapin'.'

‘You do it,' yawned Billy William. ‘I'm getting some kip.'

The biscuit tin lay at the cave entrance, its lid half on and half off. After a while a banknote got caught up on the wind and went flying out from the cave, but the robbers didn't notice. They were sound asleep, dreaming of mucking up France.

T
he next morning Polly and Friday met in the town square under the historic statue of Some Old Bloke From Ages Ago On A Horse. With heavy hearts, they set off for Boaster's Hill.

‘Oh, Friday,' sighed Polly. ‘I does hopes Alan Taylor's all right after last night's shenanigans.'

Soon after Polly said this, she and Friday came to the bottom of Boaster's Hill and then a few minutes later they were halfway up and then a bit later after that they were at the top. And it was all thanks to the miracles of legs and walking up hills. As they approached the mansion, they saw the last of the servants making off with a valuable golden peanut. Yes, Alan Taylor's own servants had taken everything and now the mansion was just a great big empty pile of house looking out over the town
like a giant's air freshener.

‘Servants, you are the worst!'
shouted Polly down the hill, her face red with fury and her elbows turquoise with annoyance.
‘You oughts to be ashamed, you naughtys! Why, I gots half a mind to write to the Houses of Peppermint an' tell the Prime Minter what's a-goin' on!'

Friday let her rant and rage for he had once
been a young girl himself and he knew what it was like to care about the world with such passions. Eventually Polly was all ranted out and she collapsed in a shrubbery.

‘Come hither, little miss,' said Friday sympathetically, helping her out from a geranium. ‘For it is now more than ever that Alan Taylor needs us, his true friends. THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!'

So into the mansion they went to find the
unlucky biscuit. The rooms were bare and lonely, the floorboards dusty and creaky beneath the heroes' heels. The wind whistled through the open windows and the majestic kitchen had been completely overrun by a woodlouse. Polly and Friday moved through the rooms calling Alan Taylor's name but there was no answer.

‘We checked everywhere,' said Polly worriedly. ‘Where IS he?'

Just then they heard a tiny sobbing sound coming from upstairs.

With their heroic ears, they followed the sound to an enormous four-poster bed in the master bedroom.

Friday threw back the white satin covers and there lay Alan Taylor, the very picture of despair. He had been crying so hard that his face had gone soggy.

‘Leave me be!' he shouted when he saw them and fiercely he grabbed the covers and pulled them back up over his little head.

‘But we're your friends,' said Polly in confusion. ‘We're here to help you.'

‘Friends?' squealed Alan Taylor. ‘That's a
laugh! You're just like all the others. You only like me when I've got money! The rest of the time you laugh behind my back. And you call me names like “Cake Face Alan” and “Crumb Boy”, just like they did at school!'

‘But we don't likes you for your money,' pleaded Polly. ‘We likes you for who you really are.'

‘Yeah, right,' snorted Alan Taylor. ‘Just like the servants. Oh, they were friendly enough
when I was rich. They laughed at my jokes and tickled me for my amusement. But all the time they were just after my cash, my antiques and my valuable golden peanut.'

‘But we're not like them, can't you see?' protested Polly. ‘Plus we're gonna catch the robbers into prison an' gets back all your money for you!'

‘Yeah, and once I'm rich again you'll pretend to be my friends again, I suppose,' replied the
unhappy biscuit. ‘Well, I'm not having it. I'm sick and tired of being made fun of and I'm going to stay in bed FOREVER. I don't need any so-called “friends”. I don't need anybody!'

‘But Alan Taylo–'

‘GET OUT!' he squealed. ‘I never want to see either of you again!'

‘Come on, little miss,' said Friday solemnly. ‘Let's leave him be.'

And he took Polly's hand and led her
towards the door. But at the last moment Polly ran back to the bed, hot tears rolling down her pretty face.

‘Alan Taylor, I d-dunno what's got into you,' sobbed Polly. ‘But I knows you d-don't mean it. An' I b-brought you a present, only you was so angry I nearly forgot 'bout it.'

She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a fifty pence piece.

‘There,' she said, pressing the coin into his
weeny brown hand. ‘It's everythin' what I got in my piggy bank. I was savin' it towards a computer but I w-wants you to have it, just in case we can't finds your riches.'

Alan Taylor just stared at the coin. He didn't even say ‘thank you'. It was more than Polly could bear. With one final sob she turned and fled from the room, her face buried in her hands.

Friday stood there for a moment longer, gazing down at the ungrateful biscuit in his enormous white bed. ‘
The truth is a lemon meringue
,' said Friday very quietly and he shook his head. ‘That's all I've got to say to you, my friend.'

F
riday twirled his imaginary detective's moustache wearily.

‘I admit it,' he said as he and Polly sat eating lunch in the
Chapter 7
Café.
‘This case is too tough even for me.'

They had been searching all morning but they hadn't found any robbers, not even one.

‘Oh, Friday,' said Polly, looking despondently at her jacket potato. It wasn't the jacket potato's fault, she just felt despondent anyway.

‘Oh, Polly,' said Friday, looking despondently at his jacket potato because he wished he'd ordered the pasta instead. And together they sat there, looking despondently at jacket potatoes.

But suddenly Polly sat bolt upright.

‘Hey!' she exclaimed. ‘What's that a-flutterin' outside the window?'

‘It's just a twenty pound note,' said Friday despondently. ‘I wish I'd ordered the pasta.'

‘But don't you gets it?' explained Polly. ‘It must be the trail of the robbers at last!'

‘Hot wigwams, you're right!' shouted Friday. ‘
To the Alancopter!
I mean, to the motorbike!'

And leaving their lunches untouched, they ran outside.

At the next table Jonathan Ripples and Martin Launderette watched them go.

‘I wonder what that's all about,' said Jonathan Ripples.

‘Never mind that,' said Martin eagerly. ‘Try your pea soup.'

‘Urgh!' said Jonathan R., swallowing down a spoonful. ‘Someone's put torn-up pieces of newspaper in it!'

‘Who'd do a thing like that?' said Martin Launderette innocently, taking out his red notebook.

Another victory,
he wrote.
The pea soup joke was HILARIOUS.