Mr Gum in 'The Hound of Lamonic Bibber' by Andy Stanton

Mr Gum in 'The Hound of Lamonic Bibber' by Andy Stanton

Author:Andy Stanton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Egmont
Published: 2011-07-17T16:00:00+00:00

‘Well,’ yawned Friday O’Leary, rising from his chair. ‘That’s more or less everything that happened. Goodnight, everyone. I’m going to bed.’

‘What?!’ protested Alan Taylor, his electric muscles sparking with indignation. ‘You can’t end the story there, that was the most exciting bit!’

‘Yeah, come on,’ said Polly. ‘Finish the story, Frides. Else you’ll make Alan Taylor cry, an’ then his face’ll go well soggy an’ then we’ll has to hang him up on the clothesline to dry out an’ then cruel children will come along an’ play a game where they throw melons at him to score points.’

‘Very well,’ replied Friday. ‘I will continue the story if you can guess what I’m holding in my hand. You get three guesses.’

‘Is it a penny?’ asked Alan Taylor.

‘Nope,’ replied Friday.

‘Is it a leaf?’ asked Polly.

‘Nope,’ replied Friday, drawing the curtains against the snowy night outside. ‘One more wrong guess and that’s it. I’m off to bed.’

‘Hmm,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘Is it a miniature 1:16 scale model of a very rare “Henrick & Son” five pedal orchestral upright grand piano in exquisite burl walnut, with beautifully carved legs, richly detailed mouldings and elegant rosewood panelled sides, originally called the “Style 34 Concert Grand” according to its original sales catalogues, and possessed of an unmatched tone, lending it a warmth and clarity which places it amongst the best in the world in terms of concert recitals?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Friday, opening his hand to show them the tiny piano, which was being played by a talented little insect called Ludwig van Beetlehoven. ‘Fair enough, you win. Now, where was I?’

‘You were behind the butcher’s shop, you idiot,’ said the tulip from its vase on the mantelpiece. ‘You were just about to find out what you’d caught in that stupid net of yours.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Friday, settling back in his chair. ‘Thank you, rare talking flower. So – Polly was down on her hands and knees in the filthy alleyway . . .’


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