Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire (8 page)

How long Polly lay under that net she didn't know. Was it minutes? Hours? Years? Probably not years. Anyway, there she lay – helpless and crying with rage.

‘Friday could be dead up on that cliff an' them robbers has escaped an' I hates it!' she
sobbed. ‘It ain't fair an' the world's rubbish an' I don't care 'bout nothin' no more so shut up!'

Eventually she had no more tears left to shed. She lay there, exhausted, and her eyes they did close, and soon she was dreaming the strangest dream . . .

Alan Taylor was there and he was nibbling away at the net with his little sharp teeth, nibbling, nibbling, nibbling.

A dead lobster fell on his head but he just pushed it off and went on nibbling. Polly could hear his electric muscles whirring away and she could see his kind brave face full of concentration and raisins . . .

Nibble, nibble, nibble. Whirr, whirr, whirr.

Nibble, nibble, nibble. Whirr, whirr, whirr.

Nibble! Whirr!

Nibble! Whirr!

Nibble, nibble, nibble. Whirr, whirr, whirr . . .

Polly opened one eye and there was the Biscuit Billionaire himself. It wasn't no dream after all! He was standing proudly on the sands with bits of net in his teeth, his doughy body protected from the rain by a miniature Superman cape which made him look like Batman.

‘A.T.!' gasped Polly, climbing out of the net. ‘Is it really you?'

‘It's me, all right,' said he. ‘I've come to my senses and got out of bed. And now to catch those robbers!'

‘But how we gonna gets 'em?' asked Polly. ‘For we haven't no boat an' we can't just swim out there, you insaner!'

‘No,' said Alan Taylor. ‘But I know someone who can.'

He gave a high-pitched whistle and suddenly a face Polly knew well appeared from behind a rock. Not just a face on its own though, that would be horrible. It was attached to a body Polly knew well too.

‘I can't believes it!' she cried, running up to hug her fat golden friend. For it was
Jake,
that massive whopper of a dog, come to the rescue at last.

J
ake gave a happy bark and slobbered all over Polly with joy and together they had a bit of a romp on the rocks, with tickling and rolling around and woofing and suchlike.

‘You know each other?' asked Alan Taylor.

‘Are you kidding?' said Polly. ‘Me an' Jake,
we're friends of old!'

‘How extraordinary,' said Alan Taylor. ‘He followed me all the way here, almost as if he wanted to help.'

‘Yeah,' said Polly, stroking Jake's tongue. ‘Cos he's the cleverest hero dog ever, an' he knew we was in troubles!'

Actually, Jake had just been wandering along looking for insects to eat but never mind. The important thing was that he was there.
Alan Taylor hopped on to his great broad head and Polly hopped on to his massive whopper back.

‘Rinky-dink-dink!' she cried, and with that the magnificent canine flopped into the sea and started up his Doggy Paddler 2000s, otherwise
known as his legs. Alan Taylor tugged at Jake's ears to steer him, and Polly was in charge of fuel, which meant cramming dog biscuits into his mouth. (She'd been carrying around dozens of them in her skirt pocket all summer, in case Jake showed up. To be honest, it was a relief to finally get rid of them.)

Meanwhile, back on the boat the robbers were just lazing around doing nothing much. They weren't even rowing, they were just letting the boat drift off to France of its own accord. Billy William was impressing Monsieur Bellybutton by eating a fifty pound note and Mr Gum was looking for dolphins to scowl at.

‘Aha!' he said, spying a great big one on the starboard side. ‘Now for some quality scowlin'!'

But as it came closer Mr Gum saw that it wasn't a dolphin after all. It was Jake, carrying his cargo of heroes.

And the next moment the glorious beast erupted from the waters like a furry referee and landed in the boat with an enormous wet crash. His whopper paws went scrabbling about all over the place and got Billy William right in the never-you-minds.

‘Ooof,' yipped Billy, and that was him out of the action.

‘
MEDDLERS!
' screamed Mr Gum, grabbing the biscuit tin and reaching for a
bashing stick, but Alan Taylor jumped at him in a heroic frenzy, his Superman cape streaming out behind him. He landed on the biscuit tin and sunk his teeth into Mr Gum's right hand.

‘Shabba me whiskers!' wailed Mr Gum. ‘That hurts like a rascal!' He waved his hand about, trying to dislodge Alan Taylor, but when it came down to it he was just a lame-o coward and he had to let go.

‘Whimper!' he remarked, retreating to the
end of the boat. But there was no place to run and he couldn't swim, and why? Because he couldn't be bothered.

Working fast, Polly and Alan Taylor tied up Mr Gum and Billy William. Then Polly turned to their evil-smelling accomplice.

‘You a bad one, all right,' she said, looking Monsieur Bellybutton up and down. ‘But maybe there's hopes for you yet. Get in this thing,' she commanded, pointing to a medieval catapult that
stood in one corner of the boat.

Monsieur Bellybutton took one look at Jake's big teeth and climbed inside, sobbing in terror.

‘Stand back!' said Polly and –

S S P L L L A N N N N G !

Monsieur Bellybutton shot out of the catapult and over the waves.

‘NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNON!' he screamed in slow-motion, which is the French for ‘NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNO!'

Because for the first time in his grubulent life, Monsieur Bellybutton was about to have a bath.

In he went. The sea began to boil up all around him as layer after layer of dirt finally met its arch enemy – water. Monsieur Bellybutton coughed and choked and hiccuped but to no avail.
The dirt was losing and at long last, after all those years, the world was free of his atrocious fragrance. A vast wave full of laughing starfish and seahorses swept him up and carried him all the way back to Paris, and never did he hassle anybody again but instead he became the loveliest grandfather you could imagine, and he knew stories and songs about happy happy mice.

But never mind that now, because Polly and Alan Taylor were rowing back to land with the defeated robbers mumbling and moaning at their feet. As they approached the shore they saw an excited figure hobbling over the rocks and shouting:

‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!
THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE! THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE! THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE! THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!'

‘Do you think that's Friday?' asked Alan Taylor.

‘I wouldn't be surprised,' said Polly, who knew her friend well.

And indeed it was he. As soon as the boat reached land, the heroes all ran up to give him
‘
friendship
medals', which means hugs.

‘Careful!' cautioned Friday as they hugged away. ‘I'm still in pain.'

And seeing Friday's brave legs all covered in blisters, Polly suddenly fell silent to remember what he'd been through – stinging nettles. Big ones.