Mr Gum and the Goblins by Andy Stanton Page A

and even as he said those words, a hunched-up figure appeared in the narrow passage, staggering towards them with outstretched arms like a mummy. Not the nice type of mummy, obviously. The type with dusty old bandages who’s always chasing you through museums at night because you dug them up out of their pyramid because you were a scientist and that’s what scientists do.
    â€˜But hold on,’ frowned Polly. ‘We haven’t been messin’ around in no pyramids lately. That can’t be a mummy after all. Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s Mrs Lovely! An’ she’s been all duffed up an’ mangled!’
    â€˜NO!’ cried Friday in distress, for Mrs Lovely was his wife and he loved her like a barbecue. ‘ NO! ’ he cried into the cold, cold night. ‘ NOOOO! ’

Chapter 2
Talk of the Devil
    B ut alas, it was indeed Mrs Lovely, owner of the sweetshop and general all-round goodie. Onwards she came, stumbling half-blind over empty pizza boxes and wailing miserably all the while. At once, Friday ran up to offer her aid and comfort and some hazelnuts – and shecollapsed unconscious in his arms. It was very dramatic and everything.

    â€˜What happened to thee?’ Friday sobbed, clutching Mrs Lovely to his ear. ‘What badness has befallen thee, oh darling wife?’
    â€˜Save your questions, Friday,’ advised Alan Taylor. ‘Mrs Lovely is in shock and it will take more than hazelnuts before she can tell us her terrible story. Come, let us get her to a place of rest.’
    So together the heroes carried Mrs Lovely to a nearby inn. A sign over the door read:

    Polly pushed open the heavy wooden door and in they went. It was warm and cosy inside and they were glad to be out of the cold – but upon their entry everything went suddenly quiet. The men folk stopped singing their merry songs and looked afraid.
    â€˜DEMONS!’ cried one, starting up and pointing with a trembling finger towards the visitors. ‘’Tis a horde of demons come to eat our bones!’
    â€˜You’re right, Jack!’ shrieked another. ‘’Tis demons for sure!’
    And at that, the men folk flew into a panic, hiding under chairs, under tables, in pints of beer – anywhere they could. One man disguised himself as a fruit machine and stood there in the corner covered in cherries and coughing up pound coins.
    â€˜Blimey, you men folk is well ignorant,’ said Polly indignantly. ‘We’re not demons.’
    â€˜Not even slightly?’ asked one of the men folk anxiously.

    â€˜No,’ said Polly firmly. ‘You lot’s drunk too much beer an’ it’s turned your brains all fuzzy an’ full of bad ’maginations. Now go home, men folk, an’ get some sleep. An’ don’t blame me if you all gots terrible headaches in the mornin’, I shouldn’t wonder.’
    â€˜OK, nine-year-old girl,’ said the men folk, ‘you’re the boss, for some reason.’ And off home they went.

    â€˜I do apologise about all that demon talk,’ said the Innkeeper, as he led Polly and her friends upstairs. ‘But though they were drunk, the men folk were right to be afraid. You never know WHO’s going to come through the door in this terrible season, when spirits and ghouls are at large. Why, only last week an evil skeleton came in and did a poo on the carpet. How I hate the Dead Of Winter!’ he exclaimed. And the Innkeeper showed the heroes to a cosy littlebedroom with wooden floorboards, bowed once and disappeared back downstairs.
    With great care, Friday dumped Mrs Lovely down on the little bed. Polly fetched a flannel and gently she scrubbed the slime from Mrs Lovely’s goodly face. And Alan Taylor hopped up on to her chin and gently he flossed her goodly teeth.
    â€˜I shall take first watch,’ said Friday, pulling up a chair. ‘If she wakes I will wake you too. But until then,