Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire

This one’s for me brother, his name is Dan And he looks like a marshy to the native man!

Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire First published 2007 by Egmont UK Limited This edition published 2019 by Egmont UK Limited, The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2007 Andy Stanton

Illustration copyright © 2007 David Tazzyman

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 9370 9

eISBN 978 1 4052 5928 6

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

Title Page

Dedication and Copyright page

Front series promotional page

1 On Boaster’s Hill

2 Meanwhile, Over at Mr Gum’s

3 Alan Taylor Shows Off Like Nobody’s Fat Business

4 The Onions of Doom

5 The Robbers on the Run

6 Alan Taylor Stays in Bed

7 On the Trail of the Money

8 Smuggler’s Cove

9 Hooray for Friendship!

10 The Spirit of the Rainbow

11 The Festival of the Leaves

About the Author

Also by

Praise

Chapter 1

On Boaster’s Hill

It all started late one afternoon in the peaceful little town of Lamonic Bibber. Summer was almost at an end and the day stretched out long and lazy like a huge glossy panther made of time. The birds chirped in the trees, the rabbits chirped in their burrows, and a fox walked along the railway tracks whistling ‘Greensleeves’ and thinking fondly of a vixen he had once loved.

Up on Boaster’s Hill a little girl sat reading a book called ‘Cobbler Wins The Prizes’. Now this little girl’s name was Polly and she was the sort of girl you could be friends with. She was brilliant at running and jumping and scabbing up her knees and she didn’t have no time for nonsense, OK? She was brave and honest and true and when she laughed the sunlight went splashing off her pretty teeth like diamonds in search of adventure.

But where were the laughter and diamondy teeth now? Nowhere, because Polly was bored.

“Cobbler Wins The Prizes’ is full of escapades but that’s just a book,’ she complained to herself. ‘Nothin’ exciting never happens ’round here. An’ that whopper dog Jake never even comes ’round to play no more!’

For alas, it was true. Polly hadn’t seen big Jake all summer long. Oh, how she missed riding on his huge furry back and pretending he was a horse or a spaceship!

‘Sigh,’ sighed Polly with a sigh. ‘First no adventures an’ now no Jakey. It’s well unfair.’

And with that she lay back in the long grass. The hot sun beat down and soon she was drifting, drifting away . . .

When Polly awoke it was dusk and the afternoon had grown fat with shadows. A low breeze whispered secrets in the bushes and the light was all funny and golden, full of magic and mystery and moths.

‘What strangery is this?’ whispered Polly. Her hair was standing on end and her arms were covered in goosebumps. It felt like something was going to happen.

And then, sure enough, something did happen. A little figure appeared over the top of Boaster’s Hill. It was the strangest little man Polly had ever pointed her eyes at. For a start, he was only 15.24 centimetres tall. And he was made entirely out of gingerbread, with raisins for eyes. And he had electric muscles so he could walk around like you or me, and blue sparks came off him whenever he moved. And what’s more, he carried an enormous biscuit tin and it was stuffed full of money. And as you know, money is worth a lot of money. And there was an awful lot of money in that tin, and that’s a fact.

‘Hello,’ said the little weirdy, skipping over to where Polly sat. ‘I am Alan Taylor.’

‘I’m Polly,’ replied Polly in wonder. ‘Are you from Fairymagic Dream Land where the rivers run with lemonade and the streets are paved with unicorns?’

‘Please don’t make fun of me,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a gingerbread man with electric muscles before?’

‘Sorry, I haven’t,’ replied Polly in embarrassment. ‘I’m only nine. And I didn’t mean to make no fun.’

‘Well, all right,’ replied the talkative biscuit. ‘Here, take some money so we can be friends!’ he continued, offering her a bundle of banknotes.

‘Why, I don’t need your riches,’ said Polly in astonishment, ‘I’ll be your friend anyway.’

‘That’s not how the world works,’ said Alan Taylor sadly, stuffing the money back into the tin. ‘But do come to my party tomorrow,’ he said, cheering up. ‘I’ve just moved into town and built a MASSIVE mansion on top of this very hill.

Look! It’s MASSIVE so I can impress people and get friends. It’s MASSIVE.’

Polly looked up and there it stood, a-gleamin’ and a-glitterin’ in a blaze of floodlights.

‘Rimloff!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s big enough for a king! Or two little kings. They could share it and play hide-an’-seek.’

‘But it’s all mine!’ laughed Alan Taylor. ‘I am so rich! I am so rich!’ he sang, dancing around in the grass and throwing banknotes at a passing aphid. ‘Do you like me, Polly? Do you want some money?’

‘I just told you,’ said Polly firmly. ‘That’s not what friendship is all about.’

‘Of course it is,’ replied Alan Taylor with a frown. ‘But listen. Come round tomorrow afternoon, before the party starts. I’ll show you my house and impress you THAT way instead.’

Well, the truth was, Polly did want to see inside that marvellous house. And she liked Alan Taylor, even though he seemed a bit confused about money and friendship. So she thanked him graciously. Then she tried to curtsey but she didn’t know how, so she just wiggled her arms around and shouted ‘CURTSEY!’ and hoped that would do.

‘Good try,’ said Alan Taylor generously. ‘Well, I’d better get going. There’s lots more people to invite and impress!’

And off he raced on his crunchy little legs, leaving Polly too excited for words. So she said some numbers instead.

‘12! 93! 114!’ she said as she made her way back home, and soon she was in bed, dreaming of gingerbread men and parties and all manner of wonderful things.

Chapter 2

Meanwhile, Over at Mr Gum’s

Mr Gum was standing in front of the cracked mirror in the lonely bedroom of his grimsters old house. Blow me down with an oil tanker, he was a horror. He hated children, animals, fun and every cartoon ever made. What he liked was snoozing in bed all day. In fact, although it was eight o’clock in the evening Mr Gum had only just got up. For not only was he a horror, he was a lazer too.

So anyway. There he was in front of the mirror, getting ready to go out.

‘You’re up early, you handsome devil,’ he said to his reflection. ‘What do you fancy doin’ today?’

‘I fancies bein’ even more evil than usual,’ replied his reflection with a nasty laugh.

‘Good idea, stupid,’ said Mr Gum. ‘In that case, I better look me most frightful.’

He got a felt-tip pen and drew some extra scowls on his forehead.

Then he scruffed up his big red beard to make it as wild and frightening as possible. It wasn’t quite terrifying enough so he stuck a couple of beetles in it and a photo of a shark.

‘That should do it,’ he growled. Then he sproinged downstairs, jumped on a skateboard he’d nicked off a six-year-old and headed into town.

On the high street, Martin Launderette was about to close up his launderette for the night when in came one last customer. It was Jonathan Ripples, the fattest man in town.

‘Martin, please be careful with these,’ he said, handing over a bundle of clothes. ‘They’re very delicate.’

‘No problem, Big J,’ said Martin Launderette reassuringly. ‘I’ll do them in cold water so they don’t shrink or anything.’

But as he was putting the clothes into the machine he noticed someone skateboarding badly along the high street, scowling as he went.

‘Look,’ said Martin Launderette, ‘it’s Mr Gum! And he’s going into Billy William the Third’s!’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Jonathan Ripples nervously. ‘That can only mean trouble.’

While JR’s head was turned, Martin Launderette secretly turned the washing machine up from COLD WASH to SUPER HOT SHRINK WASH. Then he took out a red notebook and wrote:

That fatty Ripples thinks he’s so clever but I’ll have the last laugh! His clothes won’t even fit ME after this!

Meanwhile Mr Gum had jumped off his skateboard. He smashed it to bits, pulled all the wheels off and left it lying on the pavement to show everyone he was the best.

‘I win again,’ he smirked. Then he opened the door and went into Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats.

Now Billy William was the most revolting butcher in England, and that’s official.

A big greasy trophy stood in his shop window and here is what it said:

England’s Most Revolting Butcher Trophy Awarded to Billy William for the twentieth year running, in fact just keep the trophy forever – you always win, there’s no point having the competition, you really are disgusting.

So hardly anyone in town shopped there, even though it was the only butcher’s around. Most people went to the next town to buy their meat or became vegetarian or only ate birdseed. But Mr Gum felt right at home there. Sometimes he wished the whole world could be exactly like Billy’s: filled with entrails and slimy cow lips and rubbery old turkey necks. But he knew it would never happen. It was just a beautiful dream.

‘Mornin’, me old suitcase,’ said Billy William as Mr Gum wafted in. ‘Want some entrails?’ he added, slurping up a load of bad meat off the counter with his grotty old tongue.

‘No time for that, Caterpillar Joe!’ replied Mr Gum, which is what he sometimes called Billy when he was over-excited with evil.

‘You’re over-excited with evil, ain’tcha?’ said Billy. ‘I can always tell.’

‘It’s true,’ said Mr Gum, jumping up on the counter and dancing around in a bucket of pig’s brains. ‘I fancies doin’ some terrible bad deeds today an’ no mistake!’

‘I know what’d be funty,’ said Billy William, scratching his chin with a long unwashed finger. (He always pronounced the word ‘funny’ in this way. Pronouncing words strangely was one of his hobbies, like collecting phlegm or trying to see up ladies’ skirts.) ‘We could break a skateboard,’ he suggested.

‘Nah, I already done that,’ said Mr Gum impatiently.

‘OK,’ said Billy William. ‘How about we stand out on the street an’ step on butterflies?’

‘It just ain’t evil enough, Billy!’ said Mr Gum, kicking a cow’s eyeball across the shop in frustration. ‘What we gonna do?’

Just then the door opened and in came Alan Taylor. He’d been all over town, inviting people to his party and giving out money (or ‘making friends’, as he called it). Unfortunately no one had warned him about Billy William’s, otherwise he’d have kept well away. And as soon as he opened the door and slipped on an eyeball he knew he’d made a biffer of a mistake. But Alan Taylor was a gentleman born and bread, and he remembered his manners as best he could.

‘Greetings!’ he gabbled, bravely ignoring all the blood and guts and the pile of strange twisty bones in the corner. ‘I am Alan Taylor and I’m having a party tomorrow night on Boaster’s Hill! Do come along. You’d be most welco–’

A hairy old pig’s head fell off a hook, slid down the wall and came rolling slowly towards him. With that, the last of Alan Taylor’s courage disappeared. He gave a little yelp, threw a handful of money into the air and ran back outside to safety.

‘Did you see that?’ said Mr Gum, stuffing the cash down his pants where no one would dare to go after it, not even Billy William.

‘I did,’ replied the dreadful butcher. ‘That little tungler’s as rich as a mushroom!’

‘Now listen,’ Mr Gum continued slyly, ‘I wants that money, not just a bit of it but the whole burpin’ lot. But we’ll need a plan, an’ that’s where you come in, you enormous guff merchant. So get hatchin’ plans like you never hatched plans before!’

‘Righty-oh,’ smirked Billy William, and with that he closed his eyes and began hatching a plan in perfect silence. He was like a horrible hen, except he hatched plans instead of eggs and the plans grew into misery instead of chickens, and he didn’t have wings or a beak or feathers and he didn’t make clucking noises and he wasn’t a hen.

Four hours later Billy William opened his eyes.

‘Right, I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to Taylor’s stupid party, then when it’s dark we sneak up on him an’ take his biscuit tin. Then we escape to France, change our names an’ live like powerful kings on all the cash.’

‘Caterpillar Joe, you’re a genius!’ laughed Mr Gum through a mouthful of entrails. ‘A blibberin’ genius!’

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