Horrid Henry Rocks (2 page)

CRUNCH.

CRUNCH.

Henry's room was a pigsty, thought Perfect Peter, wading through broken knights, crumpled candy wrappers, dirty clothes, ripped comics, and muddy shoes.

Mr. Kill. He'd steal Mr. Kill. Ha! Serve Henry right. And he'd put the muddy twig in Henry's bed. Serve him double right. Perfect Peter grabbed Mr. Kill, shoved the twig in Henry's bed, and dashed back to his room.

And screamed.

Fluff Puff wasn't just turned the wrong way, he was—gone! Henry must have stolen him. And Lambykins was gone

too. And Squish. Peter only had seven sheep left.

And where was his Bunnykins? He wasn't on the bed where he belonged. No!!!!!! This was the last straw. This was war.

The coast was clear. Peter always took forever in the bath. Horrid Henry slipped into the worm's room.

He'd pay Peter back for stealing Mr. Kill. There he was, shoved in the back of Peter's closet, where Peter always hid things he didn't want Henry to find. Well, ha ha ha, thought Horrid Henry, rescuing Mr. Kill.

Now what to do, what to do? Horrid Henry scooped up all of Peter's remaining sheep and shoved them inside Peter's pillowcase.

What else? Henry glanced round Peter's immaculate room. He could mess it up. Nah, thought Henry. Peter loved tidying. He could—aha.

Peter had pinned drawings all over the wall above his bed. Henry surveyed them. Shame, thought Henry, that Peter's pictures were all so dull. I mean, really, “My Family,” and “My Bunnykins.” Horrid Henry climbed on Peter's bed to reach the drawings.

Poor Peter, thought Horrid Henry. What a terrible artist he was. No wonder he was such a smelly toad if he had to look at such awful pictures all the time. Perhaps Henry could improve them…

Now, let's see, thought Horrid Henry, getting out some crayons. Drawing a crown on my head would be a big improvement. There! That livens things up. And a big red nose on Peter would help too, thought Henry, drawing away. So would a droopy mustache on Mom. And as for that stupid picture of Bunnykins, well, why not draw a lovely toilet for him to—

“What are you doing in here?” came a little voice.

Horrid Henry turned.

There was Peter, in his bunny pajamas, glaring at him.

Uh-oh. If Peter told on him again, Henry would be in big, big, mega-big trouble. Mom would probably ban him from the computer forever.

“You're in my room. I'm telling on you,” shrieked Peter.

“Shhh!” hissed Horrid Henry.

“What do you mean, shhh?” said Peter. “I'm going straight down to tell Mom.”

“One word and you're dead, worm,” said Horrid Henry. “Quick! Close the door.”

Perfect Peter looked behind him.

“Why?”

“Just do it, worm,” hissed Henry.

Perfect Peter shut the door.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Dusting for fingerprints,” said Horrid Henry smoothly.

Fingerprints?

“What?” said Peter.

“I thought I heard someone in your room, and ran in to check you were okay. Just look what I found,” said Horrid Henry dramatically, pointing to Peter's now empty mantelpiece.

Peter let out a squeal.

“My sheepies!” wailed Peter.

“I think there's a burglar in the house,” whispered Horrid Henry urgently. “And I think he's hiding…in your room.”

Peter gulped. A burglar? In his room?

“A burglar?”

“Yup,” said Henry. “Who do you think stole Bunnykins? And all your sheep?”

“You,” said Peter.

Horrid Henry snorted. “No! What would I want with your stupid sheep? But a sheep rustler would love them.”

Perfect Peter hesitated. Could Henry be telling the truth?
Could
a burglar really have stolen his sheep?

“I think he's hiding under the bed,” hissed Horrid Henry. “Why don't you check?”

Peter stepped back.

“No,” said Peter. “I'm scared.”

“Then get out of here as quick as you can,” whispered Henry. “
I'll
check.”

“Thank you, Henry,” said Peter.

Perfect Peter crept into the hallway. Then he stopped. Something wasn't right…something was a little bit wrong.

Perfect Peter marched back into his bedroom. Henry was by the door.

“I think the burglar is hiding in your closet, I'll get—”

“You said you were fingerprinting,” said Peter suspiciously. “With what?”

“My fingers,” said Horrid Henry. “Why do you think it's called
finger
printing?”

Then Peter caught sight of his drawings.

“You've ruined my pictures!” shrieked Peter.

“It wasn't me; it must have been the burglar,” said Horrid Henry.

“You're trying to trick me,” said Peter. “I'm telling!”

Time for Plan B.

“I'm only in here 'cause you were in my room,” said Henry.

“Was not!”

“Were too!”

“Liar!”

“Liar!”

“You stole Bunnykins!”

“You stole Mr. Kill!”

“Thief!”

“Thief!”

“I'm telling on you.”

“I'm telling on you!”

Henry and Peter glared at each other.

“Okay,” said Horrid Henry. “I won't invade your room if you won't invade mine.”

“Okay,” said Perfect Peter. He'd agree to anything to get Henry to leave his sheep alone.

Horrid Henry smirked.

He couldn't wait until tomorrow when Peter tried to play his cello…tee-hee.

Wouldn't he get a shock!