Horrid Henry and the Scary Sitter (6 page)

Horrid Henry spent a lovely evening in front of the TV. He watched scary movies. He ate ice cream and candy and cookies and chips until he could stuff no more in.

Vroom vroom.

Oops. Parents home.

Horrid Henry dashed upstairs and leapt into bed just as the front door opened.

Mom and Dad looked around the living room, littered with candy wrappers, cookie crumbs, and ice cream cartons.

“You did tell her to help herself,” said Mom.

“Still,” said Dad. “What a pig.”

“Never mind,” said Mom brightly, “at least she managed to get Henry to bed. That’s a first.”

Rabid Rebecca staggered into the room.

“Did you get enough to eat?” said Dad.

“No,” said Rabid Rebecca.

“Oh,” said Dad.

“Was everything all right?” asked Mom.

Rebecca looked at her.

“Can I go now?” said Rebecca.

“Any chance you could babysit on Saturday?” asked Dad hopefully.

“What do you think I am, crazy?” shrieked Rebecca.

SLAM!

Upstairs, Horrid Henry groaned.

Rats. It was so unfair. Just when he had a babysitter beautifully trained, for some reason they wouldn’t come back.

“You’re such a pig, Susan!”

“No I’m not! You’re the pig!”

“You are!” squealed Moody Margaret.

“You are!” squealed Sour Susan.

“Oink!”

“Oink!”

All was not well at Moody Margaret’s Secret Club.

Sour Susan and Moody Margaret glared at each other inside the Secret Club tent. Moody Margaret waved the empty cookie tin in Susan’s sour face.

“
Someone
ate all the cookies,” said Moody Margaret. “And it wasn’t me.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” said Susan.

“Liar!”

“Liar!”

Margaret stuck out her tongue at Susan.

Susan stuck out her tongue at Margaret.

Margaret yanked Susan’s hair.

“Oww! You horrible meanie!” shrieked Susan. “I hate you.”

She yanked Margaret’s hair.

“OWWW!” screeched Moody Margaret. “How dare you?”

They scowled at each other.

“Wait a minute,” said Margaret. “You don’t think—”

* * *

Not a million miles away, sitting on a throne inside the Purple Hand fort hidden behind prickly branches, Horrid Henry wiped a few cookie crumbs from his mouth and burped. Mmmm boy, nothing beat the taste of an archenemy’s cookies.

The branches parted.

“Password!” hissed Horrid Henry.

“Smelly toads.”

“Enter,” said Henry.

The guard entered and gave the secret handshake.

“Henry, why—” began Perfect Peter.

“Call me by my title, Worm!”

“Sorry, Henry—I mean Lord High Excellent Majesty of the Purple Hand.”

“That’s better,” said Henry. He waved his hand and pointed at the ground. “Be seated, Worm.”

“Why am I Worm and you’re Lord High Excellent Majesty?”

“Because I’m the leader,” said Henry.

“I want a better title,” said Peter.

“All right,” said the Lord High Excellent Majesty, “you can be Lord Worm.” Peter considered. “What about Lord High Worm?”

“OK,” said Henry. Then he froze.

“Worm! Footsteps!”

Perfect Peter peeked through the leaves.

“Enemies approaching!” he warned.

Pounding feet paused outside the entrance.

“Password!” said Horrid Henry.

“Dog poo breath,” said Margaret, bursting in. Sour Susan followed.

“That’s not the password,” said Henry.

“You can’t come in,” squeaked the guard, a little late.

“You’ve been stealing the Secret Club cookies,” said Moody Margaret.

“Yeah, Henry,” said Susan.

Horrid Henry stretched and yawned.

“Prove it.”

Moody Margaret pointed to all the crumbs lying on the dirt floor.

“Where did all these crumbs come from, then?”

“Cookies,” said Henry.

“So you admit it!” shrieked Margaret.

“Purple Hand cookies,” said Henry. He pointed to the Purple Hand skull and crossbones cookie tin.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” said Margaret.

Horrid Henry fell to the floor and started rolling around.

“Ooh, ooh, my pants are on fire, I’m burning, call the fire fighters!” shouted Henry.

Perfect Peter dashed off.

“Mom!” he hollered. “Henry’s pants are on fire!”

Margaret and Susan made a hasty retreat.

Horrid Henry stopped rolling and howled with laughter.

“Ha ha ha ha ha—the Purple Hand rules!” he cackled.

“We’ll get you for this, Henry,” said Margaret.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Henry.

“You didn’t really steal their cookies, did you, Henry?” asked Lord High Worm the following day.

“As if,” said Horrid Henry. “Now get back to your guard duty. Our enemies may be planning a revenge attack.”

“Why do I always have to be the guard?” said Peter. “It’s not fair.”

“Whose club is this?” said Henry fiercely.

Peter’s lip began to tremble.

“Yours,” muttered Peter.

“So if you want to stay as a temporary member, you have to do what I say,” said Henry.

“OK,” said Peter.

“And remember, one day, if you’re very good, you’ll be promoted from junior guard to chief guard,” said Henry.

“Ooh,” said Peter, brightening. Business settled, Horrid Henry reached for the cookie tin. He’d saved five yummy chocolate fudge chewies for today.

Henry picked up the tin and stopped. Why wasn’t it rattling? He shook it.

Silence.

Horrid Henry ripped off the lid and shrieked.

The Purple Hand cookie tin was empty. Except for one thing. A dagger drawn on a piece of paper. The dastardly mark of Margaret’s Secret Club! Well, he’d show them who ruled.

“Worm!” he shrieked. “Get in here!”

Peter entered.

“We’ve been raided!” screamed Henry. “You’re fired!”

“Waaaah!” wailed Peter.

* * *

“Good work, Susan,” said the leader of the Secret Club, her face covered in chocolate.

“I don’t see why you got three cookies and I only got two when I was the one who sneaked in and stole them,” said Susan sourly.

“Tribute to your leader,” said Moody Margaret.

“I still don’t think it’s fair,” muttered Susan.

“Tough,” said Margaret. “Now let’s hear your spy report.”