Copyright
Text © Francesca Simon 2010
Cover and internal illustrations © Tony Ross 2010
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.jabberwockykids.com
Originally published in Great Britain in 2010 by Orion Children’s Books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Source of Production: East Peoria, Illinois, USA
Date of Production: March 2011
Run Number: 14632
For Jesse Nunn, a major-league Horrid Henry fan, and for Imogen Stubbs
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
1. Horrid Henry’s Invasion
2. Moody Margaret’s Sleepover
3. Horrid Henry’s Autobiography
4. Horrid Henry Rocks
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
“Baa! Baa! Baa!”
Perfect Peter baaed happily at his sheep collection. There they were, his ten lovely little sheepies, all beautifully lined up from biggest to smallest, heads facing forward, fluffy tails against the wall, all five centimeters apart from one another, all—
Perfect Peter gasped. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. But what? What? Peter scanned the mantelpiece. Then he saw…
Nooooo!
Fluff Puff, his favorite sheep, the one with the pink and yellow nose, was facing the wrong way around. His nose was shoved against the wall. His tail was facing forward. And he was…he was…crooked!
This could only mean…this could only mean…
“Mom!” screamed Peter. “Mom! Henry was in my room again!”
“Henry!” shouted Mom. “Keep out of Peter’s room.”
“I’m not in Peter’s room,” yelled Horrid Henry. “I’m in mine.”
“But he was,” wailed Peter.
“Was not!” bellowed Horrid Henry.
Tee-hee.
Horrid Henry was strictly forbidden to go into Peter’s bedroom without Peter’s permission. But sometimes, thought Horrid Henry, when Peter was being even more of a toady toad than usual, he had no choice but to invade.
Peter had run blabbing to Mom that Henry had watched Mutant Max and Knight Fight when Mom had said he could only watch one or the other. Henry had been banned from watching TV all day. Peter was such a tattletale frogface ninnyhammer toady poo bag, thought Horrid Henry grimly. Well, just wait till Peter tried to color in his new picture, he’d—
“MOM!” screamed Peter. “Henry switched the caps on my markers. I just put pink in the sky.”
“Did not!” yelled Henry.
“Did too!” wailed Peter.
“Prove it,” said Horrid Henry, smirking.
Mom came upstairs. Quickly Henry leaped over the mess covering the floor of his room, flopped on his bed, and grabbed a Screamin’ Demon comic. Peter came and stood in the doorway.
“Henry’s being horrid,” sniveled Peter.
“Henry, have you been in Peter’s room?” said Mom.
Henry sighed loudly. “Of course I’ve been in his smelly room. I live here, don’t I?”
“I mean when he wasn’t there,” said Mom.
“No,” said Horrid Henry. This wasn’t a lie, because even if Peter wasn’t there his horrible stinky smell was.
“He has too,” said Peter. “Fluff Puff was turned the wrong way around.”
“Maybe he was just trying to escape from your stinky pants,” said Henry. “I would.”
“Mom!” said Peter.
“Henry! Don’t be horrid. Leave your brother alone.”
“I am leaving him alone,” said Horrid Henry. “Why can’t he leave me alone? And get out of my room, Peter!” he shrieked as Peter put his foot just inside Henry’s door.
Peter quickly withdrew his foot.
Henry glared at Peter.
Peter glared at Henry.
Mom sighed. “The next one who goes into the other’s room without permission will be banned from the computer for a week. And no allowance either.”
She turned to go.
Henry stuck out his tongue at Peter.
“Tattletale,” he mouthed.
“Mom!” screamed Peter.
Perfect Peter stalked back to his bedroom. How dare Henry sneak in and mess up his sheep? What a mean, horrible brother. Perhaps he needed to calm down and listen to a little music. The Daffy and her Dancing Daisies Greatest Hits CD always cheered him up.
“Dance and prance. Prance and dance.
You say moo moo. We say baa.
Everybody says moo moo baa baa,” piped Perfect Peter as he put on the Daffy CD.
Boils on your fat face
Boils make you dumb.
Chop Chop Chop ’em off
Stick ’em on your bum!
blared the CD player.
Huh? What was that horrible song? Peter yanked out the CD. It was the Skullbangers singing the horrible “Bony Boil” song. Henry must have sneaked a Skullbanger CD inside the Daffy case. How dare he? How dare he? Peter would storm straight downstairs and tell Mom. Henry would get into big trouble. Big, big trouble.
Then Peter paused. There was the teeny-tiny possibility that Peter had mixed them up by mistake…No. He needed absolute proof of Henry’s horridness. He’d do his homework, then have a good look around Henry’s room to see if his Daffy CD was hidden there.
Peter glanced at his to-do list pinned on his bulletin board. When he’d written it that morning it read:
The list now read:
At the bottom someone had added:
Well, here was proof! He was going to go straight down and tell on Henry.
“Mom! Henry was in my room again. He scribbled all over my to-do list.”
“Henry!” screamed Mom. “I am sick and tired of this! Keep out of your brother’s bedroom! This is your last warning! No playing on the computer for a week!”
SNEAK. SNEAK. SNEAK.
Horrid Henry slipped inside the enemy’s bedroom. He’d pay Peter back for getting him banned from the computer.
There was Peter’s cello. Ha! It only took a moment to unwind all the strings. Now, what else, what else? He could switch around Peter’s underpants and sock drawers.
No! Even better. Quickly Henry undid all of Peter’s socks and mismatched them. Who said socks should match?
Tee hee. Peter would go crazy when he found out he was wearing one Sammy the Snail sock with one Daffy sock. Then Henry snatched Bunnykins off Peter’s bed and crept out.
SNEAK. SNEAK. SNEAK.
Perfect Peter crept down the hall and stood outside Henry’s bedroom, holding a muddy twig. His heart was
pounding. Peter knew he was strictly forbidden to go into Henry’s room without permission. But Henry kept breaking that rule. So why shouldn’t he?
Squaring his shoulders, Peter tiptoed in.
CRUNCH.
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 fingerprinting?”
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!
“What are you doing here?” said Moody Margaret, glaring.
“I’m here for the sleepover,” said Sour Susan, glaring back.
“You were uninvited, remember?” said Margaret.
“And then you invited me again, remember?” snapped Susan.
“Did not.”
“Did too. You told me last week I could come.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. You’re such a meanie, Margaret,” scowled Susan. Aaaarrggghh. Why was she friends with such a moody old grouch?
Moody Margaret heaved a heavy sigh. Why was she friends with such a sour old slop bucket?
“Well, since you’re here, I guess you’d better come in,” said Margaret. “But don’t expect any dessert ’cause there won’t be enough for you and my real guests.”
Sour Susan stomped inside Margaret’s house. Grrrr. She wouldn’t be inviting Margaret to her next sleepover party, that’s for sure.
Horrid Henry couldn’t sleep. He was hot. He was hungry.
“Cookies!” moaned his tummy. “Give me cookies!”
Because Mom and Dad were the meanest, most horrible parents in the world, they’d forgotten to buy more cookies and there wasn’t a single solitary crumb in the house. Henry knew because he’d searched everywhere.
“Give me cookies!” growled his tummy. “What are you waiting for?”
I’m going to die of hunger up here, thought Horrid Henry. And it will be all Mom and Dad’s fault. They’ll come in tomorrow morning and find just a few wisps of hair and some teeth. Then they’d be sorry. Then they’d wail and gnash. But it would be too late.
“How could we have forgotten to buy chocolate cookies?” Dad would so
b.
“We deserve to be locked up forever!” Mom would shriek.
“And now there’s nothing left of Henry but a tooth, and it’s all our fault!” they’d howl.
Humph. Serve them right.
Wait. What an idiot he was. Why should he risk death from starvation when he knew where there was a rich stash of all sorts of yummy cookies waiting just for him?
Moody Margaret’s Secret Club tent was sure to be full to bursting with goodies! Horrid Henry hadn’t raided it in ages. And so long as he was quick, no one would ever know he’d left the house.
“Go on, Henry,” urged his tummy. “FEED ME!”
Horrid Henry didn’t need to be urged twice.
Slowly, quietly, he sneaked out of bed, crept down the stairs, and tiptoed out of the back door. Then quick over the wall, and ta-da, he was in the Secret Club tent. There was Margaret’s Secret Club cookie tin, in her pathetic hiding place under a blanket. Ha!
Horrid Henry prized open the lid. Oh wow. It was filled to the brim with Chocolate Fudge Chewies! And those scrumptious Triple Chocolate Chip Marshmallow Squidgies! Henry scooped up a huge handful and stuffed them in his mouth.
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.
Oh wow. Oh wow. Was there anything more delicious in the whole wide world than a mouthful of stolen cookies?
“More! More! More!” yelped his tummy.
Who was Horrid Henry to say no?
Henry reached in to snatch another mega handful…
BANG! SLAM! BANG!
STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!
“That’s too bad, Gurinder,” snapped Margaret’s voice. “It’s my party so I decide. Hurry up, Susan.”
“I am hurrying,” said Susan’s voice.
The footsteps were heading straight for the Secret Club tent.
Yikes. What was Margaret doing outside at this time of night? There wasn’t a moment to lose.
Horrid Henry looked around wildly. Where could he hide? There was a wicker chest at the back, where Margaret kept her dress-up clothes. Horrid Henry leaped inside and pulled the lid shut. Hopefully, the girls wouldn’t be long and he could escape
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