Horrid Henry Rocks by Francesca Simon Page B

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—
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œYou’re in my room. I’m telling on you,” shrieked Peter.
    â€œShhh!” hissed Horrid Henry.
    â€œWhat do you mean, shhh?” said Peter. “I’m going straight down to tell Mom.”
    â€œOne word and you’re dead, worm,” said Horrid Henry. “Quick! Close the door.”
    Perfect Peter looked behind him.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œJust do it, worm,” hissed Henry.
    Perfect Peter shut the door.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he demanded.
    â€œDusting for fingerprints,” said Horrid Henry smoothly.
    Fingerprints?
    â€œWhat?” said Peter.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMy sheepies!” wailed Peter.

    â€œI 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?
    â€œA burglar?”
    â€œYup,” said Henry. “Who do you think stole Bunnykins? And all your sheep?”
    â€œYou,” 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?

    â€œI think he’s hiding under the bed,” hissed Horrid Henry. “Why don’t you check?”
    Peter stepped back.
    â€œNo,” said Peter. “I’m scared.”
    â€œThen get out of here as quick as you can,” whispered Henry. “ I’ll check.”
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œI think the burglar is hiding in your closet, I’ll get—”
    â€œYou said you were fingerprinting,” said Peter suspiciously. “With what?”
    â€œMy fingers,” said Horrid Henry. “Why do you think it’s called finger printing?”
    Then Peter caught sight of his drawings.
    â€œYou’ve ruined my pictures!” shrieked Peter.
    â€œIt wasn’t me; it must have been the burglar,” said Horrid Henry.
    â€œYou’re trying to trick me,” said Peter. “I’m telling!”

    Time for Plan B.
    â€œI’m only in here ’cause you were in my room,” said Henry.
    â€œWas not!”
    â€œWere too!”
    â€œLiar!”
    â€œLiar!”
    â€œYou stole Bunnykins!”
    â€œYou stole Mr. Kill!”
    â€œThief!”
    â€œThief!”
    â€œI’m telling on you.”
    â€œI’m telling on you!”
    Henry and Peter glared at each other.
    â€œOkay,” said Horrid Henry. “I won’t invade your room if you won’t invade mine.”
    â€œOkay,” 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.
    â€œI’m here for the sleepover,” said Sour Susan, glaring back.
    â€œYou were uninvited, remember?” said Margaret.
    â€œAnd then you invited me again, remember?” snapped Susan.
    â€œDid not.”
    â€œDid