For Vicky and William

Mr Gum and the Dancing Bear First published 2008 by Egmont UK Limited This edition published 2019 by Egmont UK Limited, The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2008 Andy Stanton

Illustration copyright © 2008 David Tazzyman

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 9373 0

eISBN 978 1 4052 5931 6

mrgum.co.uk www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

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Read all of Andy Stanton’s books!

You’re a Bad Man, MR GUM!

MR GUM and the Biscuit Billionaire

MR GUM and the Goblins

MR GUM and the Power Crystals

MR GUM and the Dancing Bear

What’s for Dinner, MR GUM?

MR GUM and the Cherry Tree

MR GUM and the Secret Hideout

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication and Copyright page

Front series promotional page

1 Padlock the Bear

2 The World Champion of the Butcher’s Shop Lying Contest

3 What’s to Be Done with Padlock the Bear?

4 The Baddies, the Bear and the Balloon

5 Down by the Docks

6 Captain Brazil

7 Life at Sea

8 Two Men in a Boat

9 Discovered!

10 She and the Bear are Put on a Plank and Set Adrift on the Ocean Blue

11 To the Island

12 The Hunt for Padlock

13 Exploring the Island

14 The Kingdom of the Beasts

15 The Spirit of the Rainbow?

16 Home Again

About the author

About the illustrator

PRAISE FOR MR GUM

Some of the crazy old townsfolk from Lamonic Bibber

Tales from Lamonic Bibber

Chapter 1 Padlock the Bear

Who likes bears? Everyone likes bears. I likes bears, you likes bears, this guy I know called Will Bulman likes bears. Everyone likes bears. They are truly the king of the jungle. They are nature’s way of saying, ‘here’s what bears look like’. They are the best. They are the bears.

And guess what, bear-likers? You’re in luck, because this story is all about a bear. Not just any bear, mind you, but a startlingly big and handsome specimen who came strolling into the little town of Lamonic Bibber one fine autumn morning. He was a proper fat shaggy rumble-me-tumble sort of a roly-poly flip-flap-flopper of a big brown bear, not like some of these cheap bears you see nowadays who have hardly got any legs and need batteries.

He was as tall as two men, or about forty hamsters if you could only manage to glue them on top of each other to prove it. And he weighed as much as two hundred watermelons, or roughly nineteen thousand grapes.

But what about his fur? Well, I’m glad I asked me that because he was covered from head to foot in the most gorgeous, chocolate-coloured fur you’ve ever seen. It was soft and deep and long, and it was glossy with healthy goodness, just like a bear’s fur should be. And his eyes, oh his eyes, his precious hazel eyes! One look into those big beautiful blinkers and that was it, you were in love forever.

And as this glorious new arrival came rumbling down the high street on his thick hind legs, everyone stopped what they were doing to stare.

‘Kroola-hoola!’ exclaimed Jonathan Ripples, the fattest man in town. ‘He’s as fat as me!’

‘Wab!’ remarked Old Granny, the oldest woman in Lamonic Bibber. ‘There hasn’t been a bear in this town since the Great Gecko Plague of 1922 – and even then there weren’t any bears, just quite a lot of geckos.’

‘A bear!’ shouted the postman.

‘A bear!’ shouted the milkman.

‘Hey, you greedy herons! Keep away from my breakfast!’ shouted Friday O’Leary, who was having a spot of bother over at the Heron Attack Café.

Soon there was a huge parade of laughing townsfolk, all capering and cavorting along behind the lumbering bear as he waddled down the high street and into the town square. And there, upon a bench beneath the statue of Sir Henry Violin, the inventor of the saxophone, the bear sat himself down, buried his face in his paws and began to sob.

Well now. There is nothing quite as sad as the sight of a sobbing bear. It is sadder than a broken toy lying in the rain. It is sadder than a little white onion being bullied by a gang of tough courgettes in leather jackets. It is sadder than a grandma who no one comes to visit because her face is just too hairy. Believe me, children of all ages, a sobbing bear is not a happy sight.

The townsfolk looked on in astonishment. But did any of them go and comfort that poor beast in his hour of soggy need? No, they did not. Oh, they all said they liked bears. They all donated money to charities like ‘Bear Aid’, ‘Save The Bears’ and ‘Let’s Buy Some Bears a New Toothbrush’. But when it came to actually helping one out in real life, it was another story entirely. It was a story of the townsfolk looking on in astonishment – until a heroic young girl called Polly passed by, that is. Polly was nine years old, with lovely sandy hair and nice trainers, and she simply couldn’t stand to see another person in trouble, especially if that person happened to be a bear.

‘My goodnesses, that’s not right,’ she exclaimed, and without a thought for her own safety she approached the beast as he sat there, bawling away like a greengrocer.

‘Good morning, furry visitor,’ said Polly. ‘I’m sorry you’re so sad.’

‘Mmmmmph?’ said the bear, for the truth was that no human being had ever spoken so kindly to him before. Taking his tear-stained paws from his eyes, he peered at the little girl who stood unafraid before him in the bright autumn sunshine.

‘Eat her! Eat her! Eat her!’ chanted the townsfolk. Not really, but it would have been funny if they had.

‘My name’s Polly,’ said Polly, gazing into the creature’s doleful hazel eyes. Through his tears the bear gazed back at Polly, and in that moment something remarkable happened. In that moment the two of them became the best of friends, like Laurel & Hardy or Batman & Robin or Albert Einstein & Tarzan.

‘I’m a-gonna call you “Padlock”,’ Polly told the bear, ‘if that’s OK with you. Do you like crackers? I got loads in my skirt pocket, only some of them’s a bit broken, sorry.’

But Padlock didn’t mind at all, and together he and Polly sat in the town square eating broken crackers while all around them the leaves fell, soft and sad like autumn’s teardrops.

Chapter 2 The World Champion of the Butcher’s Shop Lying Contest

But where were those outrageous tinklers, Mr Gum and Billy William the Third, while all this was going on? Well, they were loafing around Billy William’s unhygienic butcher’s shop, scoffing rancid entrails by the bucketful and having a contest to see who could tell the most lies in one minute. Mr Gum was in the lead with eleven monstrous untruths but now it was Billy’s turn and he was raring to go.

‘On yer marks . . . get set . . . LIE YER FLIPPIN’ EYEBROWS OFF!’ shouted Mr Gum, starting up a stopwatch in his mean old hand – and Billy leapt into action.

‘Right,’ he began, screwing his ears up with concentration, ‘I’m the President of Space! I’m over six hundred years old! I . . . um . . . I once done a drawin’ of a crocodile so brilliant it came to life an’ bit me legs off . . . ’

‘SUPER-FIB BONUS!’ shouted Mr Gum, spitting entrails all over Billy’s face in his excitement. ‘Two lies in one!’

‘Um . . ., ’ said Billy, ‘I got a car what’s so fast it keeps drivin’ into the future! I got five arms! I don’t smell! There’s a secret world hidden under my cap! I once kissed a lady! I sell only the finest quality meats in my shop . . . um . . . ’

‘Time up!’ growled Mr Gum suddenly, which was a lie in itself as Billy still had fifteen seconds to go. ‘Unlucky, Billy me old nozzler, it was a good try but you only got ten lies. So I’m still the reignin’ World Champion Liar of the Butcher’s Shop!’

‘Here, let me see that stopwatch,’ said Billy William suspiciously but Mr Gum quickly smashed it to bits on the counter and ate the pieces.

‘What stopwatch?’ said Mr Gum innocently, a spring hanging out of his mouth.

Well, a fight might have broken out just then, but at that moment Mr Gum happened to glance out the fly-covered window. And when he saw what was going on outside in the town square, his eyes lit up like razor blades.

‘Hang on, Billy me boy,’ he exclaimed. ‘At long last our luck’s changin’ for the better. See that bear out there? Well, he’s our ticket to fame, fortune, glory, some more fame, riches, wealth an’ a bit more fortune.’

‘How’s that then?’ enquired Billy William, squashing a fly against the windowpane and drawing a big question mark on the glass with its blood. ‘He’s only a stinkin’ bear!’

‘Yeah, but wait ’til we get ’im dancin’ for us!’ scowled Mr Gum happily. ‘Everyone loves a dancin’ bear – an’ they’ll pay anythin’ to see it! The bear dances, you go ’round with a hat to collect up the cash an’ I sit back on a comfy chair shoutin’, “Oi, Billy! Bring me all that money or I’ll kick ya in the ribs!” Yes,’ laughed Mr Gum, ‘once we get our hands on that bear, it’s riches all the way for us, ’specially me. An’ that ain’t no lie!’

Chapter 3 What’s to Be Done with Padlock the Bear?

And so the days passed as autumn wore on in that gusty, blustery way that it does. In the butcher’s shop, Mr Gum and Billy William sat making their plans. In the cake shop, the baker sat making his flans. And in the town square, Polly sat with Padlock, wringing her hands.

‘Oh, Padlock,’ sighed Polly worriedly. ‘Every day I bring you crackers an’ tell you jokes to cheer you up, but nothin’s a-workin’. What’s wrong, boy?’

Padlock’s only answer was a tired little ‘mmph’. He seemed unhappier than ever. He was growing thinner by the day, and his big hazel eyes were empty and lifeless, like a boarded-up cinema in a town called Misery. Often he hardly even seemed to notice Polly, but just gazed mournfully off into the distance, rocking back and forth all the while.

Worst of all was his fur. Not only had it lost its lovely rich glossiness – it was actually starting to fall out. Every morning Polly would find more of Padlock’s fur on the ground and less of Padlock’s fur on Padlock, until one day she could take it no more.

‘I’m gonna visit Alan Taylor,’ Polly told Padlock as he sat there sobbing and not even bothering to wipe his runny nose with his paws. ‘He’s a brilliant headmaster what knows all ’bout the natural world. Maybe he can help you.’

‘Polly!’ beamed Alan Taylor when she turned up on the steps of Saint Pterodactyl’s School For The Poor later that afternoon. ‘What a delightful surprise!’

‘Hello,’ said Polly, bending down to give him a hug. She had to bend down because Alan Taylor was only 15.24 centimetres tall. He was probably the world’s smallest ever headmaster, and almost definitely the only one to be made out of gingerbread. His electric muscles sparked and whirred merrily as he led Polly along a long corridor lined with drawings done by the schoolchildren. Even the rubbish drawings were pinned up, because Alan Taylor wasn’t the kind of headmaster who says things like, ‘Blimey, this drawing’s pathetic, is that supposed to be a tree?’ He was the kind of headmaster who says things like, ‘Well done for trying, have a gold star and some sweets.’

‘Well now, Polly,’ said Alan Taylor when they were seated comfortably in the soft leather chairs in his headmaster’s study. ‘What brings you here today?’

So Polly told the little biscuit all about Padlock.

‘An’ I thought you might know what’s wrong with him, Alan Taylor, ’cos you’re such a professor of the natural world,’ she finished, gazing in awe at all the books on the bookshelves. There were five in all, and they were titled: ‘ANIMALS A–G’, ‘ANIMALS H–L’, ‘ANIMALS M–Q’, ‘ANIMALS R–Y’ and ‘ZEBRAS’.

‘Hmm,’ said Alan Taylor, leaning back in his chair and taking a puff on a tiny liquorice pipe. ‘Would you mind handing me that copy of “ANIMALS A–G”, Polly? I think we might find what we’re looking for in there.’

So Polly took down the heavy book, which was bigger than Alan Taylor himself, and she turned the pages until she came to the section about bears.

‘Let’s see,’ said Alan Taylor, jumping on to the page for a better look. ‘Hmm . . . interesting . . . aha! Just as I thought,’ he nodded. ‘Padlock is showing all the signs of homesickness. You see, Polly, bears are not meant to be cooped up in the World of Men. They simply aren’t born to drive cars, or to work in shoe shops – or even to sit around town squares doing nothing all day long. If you ask me,’ continued the headmaster, ‘Padlock’s real home is the Kingdom of the Beasts, where he can roam wild and free and hairy as nature intended.’

‘Oh, thank you, Alan Taylor, thank you,’ said Polly gratefully. ‘I knewed you’d have the answer! I’ll go an’ put things right at once. But will you help me?’ she asked hopefully, because Alan Taylor was always good to have along on adventures, and whenever he fell asleep you could secretly nibble his delicious gingerbread fingernails.

Alan Taylor sighed.

‘I’d love to, Polly, but I just can’t. I’ve got a huge pile of essays to mark and it’s Parents’ Evening next week. It’s quite hard work being a headmaster, you know.’

‘Well, you’re the best one what I ever heard of,’ said Polly, giving her friend a lovely big kiss on the nose. And bidding Alan Taylor a fond farewell she set off to see about returning Padlock to the Kingdom of the Beasts where he belonged.

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