Mr Gum and the Secret Hideout

For Leah Thaxton, Katie Bennett and the amazing David Tazzyman

Mr Gum and the Secret Hideout First published 2010 by Egmont UK Limited This edition published 2019 by Egmont UK Limited, The Yellow Building,1 Nicholas Road London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2010 Andy Stanton

Illustration copyright © 2010 David Tazzyman

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 9376 1

eISBN 978 1 4052 5934 7

mrgum.co.uk www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Read all of Andy Stanton’s books!

You’re a Bad Man, MR GUM!

MR GUM and the Biscuit Billionaire

MR GUM and the Goblins

MR GUM and the Power Crystals

MR GUM and the Dancing Bear

What’s for Dinner, MR GUM?

MR GUM and the Cherry Tree

MR GUM and the Secret Hideout

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Front series promotional page

1 The Secret Hideout

2 The Department of Clouds and Yogurts

3 The Badsters Yick it Up

4 ’Vestigations and Birdseed

5 Down by the Riverside

6 The Midnight Meating

7 Prisoners!

8 Ship’s Biscuit

9 The Captain and Elizabeth

10 Old Granny on the Hoof

11 Mr Gum Gets a Surprise

12 Clouds of Sorrow, Clouds of Joy

EPILOGUE

THE END

About the Illustrator

About the Author

PRAISE FOR Mr Gum

Some of the crazy old townsfolk from Lamonic Bibber

Chapter 1 The Secret Hideout

Mr Gum was a fierce old blister with a face as angry as a thousand walnuts and a big red beard which smelt of menace and beer. He hated children, animals, fun, comics, pop music, birthday parties, books, Christmas, the seaside, computer games, people called ‘Colin’, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fri– Actually, it would probably be quicker to tell you what he liked instead. What he liked was snoozing in bed all day, being a horror and secret hideouts. And the secret hideout he was in right now was the best secret hideout he’d ever seen.

‘This secret hideout’s flippin’ brilliant!’ shouted Mr Gum as he paced up and down in his hobnail boots. ‘It’s got everythin’! Rats! Cockroaches! Pipes what keep drippin’ slime everywhere! An’ it stinks! It’s like what I always imagined Heaven would be! An’ best of all, no one’s ever gonna find us here!’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Mr Gum’s dreadful accomplice, a scrawny butcher by the name of Billy William the Third. Billy was standing by a great iron furnace, shovelling old bits of meat on to the flames. And not just any old old bits of meat, but the stalest, grubbiest, most appalling specimens imaginable. Strings of ancient entrails, withered old horse legs, rubbery turkey necks …

On they all went, on to the flames. Billy was covered in soot and he was dripping with gobs of hot fat, but he hardly noticed. And why? I don’t know, I’m not him. He just didn’t.

‘Faster!’ commanded Mr Gum, hopping from one foot to the other like an unstoppable quail. ‘Shovel them entrails, Billy me boy! Chuck it on, chuck it on! An’ stoke it all up with coal or I’ll bash ya!’

‘Right you are, Gummy me old rattler!’ laughed Billy, chucking on a piece of coal that was twice the size of a piece of coal that was half the size of the piece of coal I’m talking about.

ROAR! bellowed the furnace. A great long lick of flame flicked out and singed off Billy’s eyebrows, cruel as a scarlet donkey.

‘Ha ha ha!’ cackled Billy, who loved to see people getting hurt. ‘Someone jus’ got their eyebrows burned off!’ Then he realised who that someone was, and he let out a bloodcurdling howl.

‘OOW!’ yelled Billy, hopping up and down in agony. ‘How come I gotta do all the shovellin’ ‘round here anyway? How come you ain’t doin’ none?’

‘Shut up!’ roared Mr Gum, whacking Billy over the head with a silk handkerchief. He didn’t have a silk handkerchief, so he used a cricket bat instead. ‘We gotta keep gettin’ that power up! We can’t afford to rest for a moment. Now, you carry on shovellin’. I gotta rest for a moment.’

Mr Gum threw himself down on a filthy old sofa he’d found on a rubbish tip, all covered with stains and moss. The cushions were cold and soggy, and a big rusty spring poked uncomfortably into his back, but Mr Gum was such a lazer he didn’t really care.

‘I tell ya, I love this secret hideout,’ yawned Mr Gum as he lay there staring up at the ceiling, his hands behind his head and his head behind whatever was in front of his head, probably just a bit of air or something. ‘This is the life, eh, Billy?’

‘Yeah, this is the life,’ said Billy.

‘Yeah, this is the life,’ said another voice.

‘Who the blimmin’ flip said that?’ shouted Mr Gum.

‘It was I!’ cried a man, jumping out from behind the sofa.

‘I’m Surprising Ben! I pop up here, I pop up there! Surprise! Surprise! I’m everywhere!’

And off he ran, giggling like a packed lunch.

‘Well, that was surprisin’,’ scowled Mr Gum.

‘It certainly was,’ said Billy, chewing a piece of coal to see if he could turn it into a diamond but actually just hurting his teeth. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, spitting it into the fire. ‘Soon we’ll have a blaze so powerful it’ll be the most powerful in history! Even more powerful than itself, even though that’s impossible!’

‘Yeah,’ grinned Mr Gum, rubbing his hands with glee. Then he rubbed his hands with brie, which is sort of the same but a lot smellier. ‘An’ the more powerful that blaze gets, the closer we gets to winnin’ once an’ for all!’

‘Ha ha ha!’ said Billy William. ‘It’s funty!’

And the rats they scuttled and the pipes dripped slime and the vats they bubbled and Billy he shovelled in the secret hideout where the two men hid, cos they were low-down villains and that’s what they did.

Chapter 2 The Department of Clouds and Yogurts

Later that day, a nine-year-old girl and an oldish fellow in a nice friendly hat were sitting in the town square watching something very peculiar. It was the clouds. Every now and then one would just fall out of the sky – FLOOOOOB! – and land on the ground – BUFFSH! See? Very peculiar indeed.

Now, the nine-year-old girl was Polly and the oldish fellow was Friday O’Leary. And if you’re thinking, ‘Who even cares about them, not me, I like stories with heroes in, not stories with some idiotic little girl and a bloke who’s named after a day of the week,’ then I’m afraid you’ve just made an astonishing fool of yourself. Because Polly and Friday were heroes. They were two of the best heroes the town of Lamonic Bibber had ever seen. They were as brave as bees, as true as trees, as cheerful as cheese and as knowledgeable as knees. Not so clever now, are you?

FLOOOOOB!

BUFFFSH!

Another cloud flopped out of the sky and landed on a hen, startling it so much that it accidentally laid an egg out of its mouth.

‘Hmm,’ said Polly. She had a worried expression on her face and Friday had a bit of strawberry yogurt on his. Friday loved yogurts.

‘Frides,’ said Polly at length. ‘Do you know what I’m a-thinkin’?’

‘Maybe,’ said Friday hopefully ‘Are you thinking, “I ought to go and buy Friday an enormous yogurt, he deserves it?’”

‘No,’ replied Polly. ‘I’m a-thinkin’ there’s somethin’ well strange goin’ on with them clouds up there. I never done seen ’em fallin’ out the sky before. It can’t be no good, that’s what I says.’

‘Yes,’ said Friday thoughtfully. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ he continued. ‘Now let’s go and get some delicious yogurts and not think about it ever again.’

‘But, Frides, if we jus’ ignore them clouds who knows what might happen?’ frowned Polly. ‘Jus’ imagine. Without no clouds, there won’t be no rain. Without no rain, the grass won’t grow. Without no grass, the cows’ll die. Without no cows there won’t be no milk. An’ without no milk –’

‘There won’t be any yogurts!’ cried Friday in alarm as another cloud fell down with a soft furry bang somewhere in the distance. ‘We’ve got to do something, Polly! We’ve got to! We’ve got to! We’ve simply GOT to!’

‘’Xactly,’ said Polly. ‘So I was thinkin’, why don’t we starts up an office an’ do some ’vestigations?’

‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ yelled Friday, as he sometimes liked to do. ‘I’ve always wanted to work in an office!’

It was true. Friday O’Leary had done all sorts of jobs in his time. He had been an inventor, a travelling musician, a sailor, another sailor, an American footballer, a fashion model, a Lego model, the King of Sweden, the Queen of Sweden, the first man never to have walked on the moon, a jet pilot, a detective, a mountaineer who explored mountains, a fountaineer who explored fountains, a ninja, a stunt-car racer, a film star, an earthworm-tamer, a famous French chef called Monsieur Canard, a TV presenter and a professional apple.

‘But all those jobs were completely boring!’ said Friday, jumping up so high he almost hit the sun with his face, narrowly missing it by only 149.599 million kilometres. ‘What I’ve always wanted is to work in an office. That’s the life for me!’

So Friday went home and got some planks and nails, and after a few hours of hammering and saying, ‘Ouch, I just hit my thumb with a hammer,’ there they were, sitting in their brand-new office in the town square. It was so cool. There was a big desk with some pens and a stapler on it. And there was a clock on the wall so you could see what time it was and a broken clock next to it so you could see what time it wasn’t. And there were some chairs to spin around on and a photocopier so you could copy words and a photocopier so you could copy words and a photocopier so you could copy words and a photocopier so you could copy words and a photocopier so you could copy words and a photocopier so you could copy words and a photocopier so you could copy words and a photocopier so you could copy words –

‘Stop playin’ with that photocopier, Frides,’ said Polly, ‘an’ help me think up a brilliant name for our new office. Then we can get started on our ’vestigations.’

‘OK,’ said Friday. ‘How about “THE DEPARTMENT OF CLOUDS AND YOGURTS”?’

It was a brilliant name, apart from the yogurt bit. But Friday would not give in, so that’s what they called it.

Polly went home and got some paint, and together she and Friday made a wonderful sign to hang above the office door:

After it was painted, Polly added some glitter and stickers of hearts and ponies around the words and Friday hung some broccoli from it ‘for good luck’. It looked excellent. And if you looked at it twice, it looked twice as excellent. But if you looked at it three times, it still only looked twice as excellent, which just goes to show things can get a bit boring if you look at them too much.

Then Friday went and bought suits and ties for them both. And then they sat at the desk with their hands folded in front of them, looking extremely serious.

‘Now, Mr Friday,’ said Polly. ‘I done some ’vestigations in my head an’ I reckons all the clouds probbly bein’ mucked up cos of bad pollutions in the air.’

‘Exactly, Mr Polly,’ said Friday, who was busy sharpening his tie in the electric pencil-sharpener.

‘So we gots to work out where all them pollutions is comin’ from,’ said Polly. ‘That’s our first job.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Friday. ‘That’s our first job.’

‘Yes,’ said a voice in the corner. ‘That’s our first job.’

‘Who said that?’ said Polly.

‘It was I!’ cried a man, jumping out of the wastepaper basket. ‘I’m Surprising Ben! I pop up here, I pop up there! Surprise! Surprise! I’m everywhere!’

And away he ran, giggling like a tortoise.

‘That was quite surprising,’ said Friday. ‘But now it’s time to get to work. I have here a map of Lamonic Bibber,’ he said, unrolling a huge map from his sock. ‘Now, look carefully, Mr Polly. I drew this map myself, many years ago. See, there’s my signature in the corner.’

DRAWN BY FRIDAY ‘LEONARDO’ O’LEARY, NOVEMBER 14TH 1973

‘I don’t want to sound boastful or anything,’ said Friday modestly, ‘but this is probably the most incredible map anyone’s ever drawn in the history of all human existence. Look, every street, every house, every hill in Lamonic Bibber – it’s all there.

‘Now,’ he continued. ‘We will go looking for the pollution. We will investigate a little of the town each day. Then we will come back and colour in bits of the map to show we’ve investigated them. And also because we like colouring things in.’

‘Hurrah!’ laughed Polly, clapping her hands.

FLOOOOOB!

BUFFSH-SH-!!

A big wheezy cloud flopped out of the sky and landed right outside the office.

‘There’s no time to wastes, Mr Friday,’ said Polly as the poor bit of weather was licked up by a stray baby. ‘We better start doin’ our ’vestigations.’

Chapter 3 The Badsters Yick it Up

BOING!

BOING!

BOING!

‘That’s it, Billy me old demonic melon!’ laughed Mr Gum as he BOING!ed up and down on his grimsters old sofa. ‘Chuck that meat on the heat!’

‘Right you are!’ cackled Billy, shovelling a pile of horse bladders on to the fire where they exploded in a dirty shower known as ‘Butcher’s Fireworks’. ‘But why we doin’ all this again, Mr Gum, me old Spanish woodworm?’

‘Cos it’s our flippin’ masterplan, Billy me boy,’ growled Mr Gum, BOING!ing higher than ever. ‘The more we heat up them stale meats, the more poison gases goes up that massive chimney an’ in the air. An’ the more poison gases goes in the air, the hotter an’ nastier it gets in Lamonic Bibber. It’s called “Townal Warmin’”.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ laughed Billy. ‘“Townal Warmin”’. Now I remember. An’ once that stupid town gets hot enough, then –’

‘SPLASH!’ finished Mr Gum, grinning so nastily that a nearby mouse dissolved with fright. ‘The weather goes crazy, Lamonic Bibber falls in the sea an’ then we rule over it forever!’

‘How we gonna rule over it if it’s fallen in the sea?’ asked Billy through a mouthful of coal dust.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Mr Gum. ‘I never thought of that. Well, forget it. We’ll just stick to destroyin’ Lamonic Bibber by makin’ it fall in the sea. That’s evil enough for now. OI!’ he shouted. ‘Why ain’t you shovellin’ that meat? Get back to work, you lazy old trumpet!’

‘But there ain’t no more meat to shovel,’ whined Billy. ‘Them horse bladders was the last of it. We run out, see?’

‘Well, take yer stupid cap off an’ chuck it on the blaze!’ yelled Mr Gum. So Billy took off his butcher’s cap and threw it on the furnace, where it quickly burnt to a crisp.

‘Now burn yer apron!’ yelled Mr Gum. ‘Now burn yer shirt! Now burn yer trousers! Now burn yer boots! Now burn yer socks! Now burn yer pant – nah, on second thoughts keep yer pants on, you disgustin’ lettuce.’

‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Billy as he stood there in his grubby grey boxer shorts. ‘We burnt all the meat. We burnt me clothes. There’s nothin’ left to burn.’

‘What we gonna do now?’ scowled Mr Gum, stroking his beard into the shape of a gigantic red question mark.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ said Billy. ‘We gotta go an’ get more meat off that strange little bloke what helped us out last time.’

‘It’s true,’ growled Mr Gum. ‘But we gotta be crafty, Billy der Willy der Wills. We gotta be so crafty ’bout it that even we hardly know what we’re up to ourselves. What’s that thing called when it’s all dark an’ there’s that stupid thing in the sky what’s not the sun but the other one what’s not so big?’

‘Night time?’ suggested Billy.

‘Yeah, that’s it,’ grinned Mr Gum. ‘That’s the time to do our evils, Billy me boy – “Night time”. When no one can see us, when no one can catch us an’ when no one can stinkin’ well stop us!’

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