Copyright
Text © Francesca Simon 2007
Internal illustrations © Tony Ross 2007
Cover illustration © Tony Ross 2008
Cover and internal design © 2010 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
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Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.jabberwockykids.com
Originally published in Great Britain in 2007 by Orion Children’s Books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Source of Production: Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinois, USA
Date of Production: July 2010
Run Number: 12933
Dedication
For my niece, Ava Rose
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Horrid Henry and the Abominable Snowman
Horrid Henry's Rainy Day
Moody Margaret's Makeover
Horrid Henry's Author Visit
About the Author
Back Cover
Moody Margaret took aim.
Thwack!
A snowball whizzed past and smacked Sour Susan in the face.
“AAAAARRGGHHH!” shrieked Susan.
“Ha ha, got you,” said Margaret.
“You big meanie,” howled Susan, scooping up a fistful of snow and hurling it at Margaret.
Thwack!
Susan’s snowball smacked Moody Margaret in the face.
“OWWWW!” screamed Margaret. “You’ve blinded me.”
“Good!” screamed Susan.
“I hate you!” shouted Margaret, shoving Susan.
“I hate you more!” shouted Susan, pushing Margaret.
Splat! Margaret toppled into the snow.
Splat! Susan toppled into the snow.
“I’m going home to build my own snowman,” sobbed Susan.
“Fine. I’ll win without you,” said Margaret.
“Will not!”
“Will too! I’m going to win, copycat,” shrieked Margaret.
“I’m going to win,” shrieked Susan. “I kept my best ideas secret.”
“Win? Win what?” demanded Horrid Henry, stomping down his front steps in his snow boots and swaggering over. Henry could hear the word win from miles away.
“Haven’t you heard about the
competition?” said Sour Susan. “The prize is—”
“Shut up! Don’t tell him,” shouted Moody Margaret, packing snow onto her snowman’s head.
Win? Competition? Prize? Horrid Henry’s ears quivered. What secret were they trying to keep from him? Well, not for long. Horrid Henry was an expert at extracting information.
“Oh, the competition. I know all about that,” lied Horrid Henry. “Hey, great snowman,” he added, strolling casually over to Margaret’s snowman and pretending to admire her work.
Now, what should he do? Torture? Margaret’s ponytail was always a tempting target. And snow down her sweater would make her talk.
What about blackmail? He could spread some great rumors about Margaret at school. Or…
“Tell me about the competition or the ice guy gets it,” said Horrid Henry suddenly, leaping over to the snowman and putting his hands around its neck.
“You wouldn’t dare,” gasped Moody Margaret.
Henry’s mittened hands got ready to push.
“Bye bye, head,” hissed Horrid Henry. “Nice knowing you.”
Margaret’s snowman wobbled.
“Stop!” screamed Margaret. “I’ll tell you. It doesn’t matter ’cause you’ll never ever win.”
“Keep talking,” said Horrid Henry warily, watching out in case Susan tried to ambush him from behind.
“Frosty Freeze is having a best snowman competition,” said Moody Margaret, glaring. “The winner gets a year’s free supply of ice cream. The judges will decide tomorrow morning. Now get away from my snowman.”
Horrid Henry walked off in a daze, his jaw dropping. Margaret and Susan pelted him with snowballs but Henry didn’t even notice. Free ice cream for a year direct from the Frosty Freeze Ice Cream factory. Oh wow! Horrid Henry couldn’t believe it. Mom and Dad were so mean and horrible they hardly ever let him have ice cream. And when they did, they never ever
let him put on his own hot fudge sauce and whipped cream and sprinkles. Or even scoop the ice cream himself. Oh no.
Well, when he won the Best Snowman Competition they couldn’t stop him from gorging on Chunky Chocolate Fab Fudge Caramel Delight or Vanilla Whip Tutti-Frutti Toffee Treat. Oh boy! Henry could taste that glorious ice cream now. He’d live on ice cream. He’d bathe in ice cream. He’d sleep in ice cream. Everyone from school would turn up at his house when the Frosty Freeze truck arrived bringing his weekly barrels. No matter how much they begged, Horrid Henry would send them all away. No way was he sharing a drop of his precious ice cream with anyone.
And all he had to do was build the best snowman in the neighborhood. Pah! Henry’s was sure to be the winner. He would build the biggest snowman of all. And not just a snowman. A snowman with claws and horns and fangs. A vampire-demon-monster snowman. An Abominable Snowman. Yes!
Henry watched Margaret and Susan rolling snow and packing their saggy snowman. Ha. Snow heap, more like.
“You’ll never win with that,” jeered Horrid Henry. “Your snowman is pathetic.”
“Better than yours,” snapped Margaret.
Horrid Henry rolled his eyes.
“Obviously, because I haven’t started mine yet.”
“We’ve got a big head start on you, so ha ha ha,” said Susan. “We’re building a ballerina snowgirl.”
“Shut up, Susan,” screamed Margaret.
A ballerina snowgirl? What a stupid idea. If that was the best they could do, Henry was sure to win.
“Mine will be the biggest, the best, the most gigantic snowman ever seen,” said Horrid Henry. “And much better than your stupid snow dwarf.”
“Fat chance,” sneered Margaret.
“Yeah, Henry,” sneered Susan. “Ours is the best.”
“No way,” said Horrid Henry, starting to roll a gigantic ball of snow for Abominable’s big belly. There was no time to lose.
Up the path, down the path, across the garden, down the side, back and forth, back and forth, Horrid Henry rolled the biggest ball of snow ever seen.
“Henry, can I build a snowman with you?” came a little voice.
“No,” said Henry, starting to carve out some clawed feet.
“Oh please,” said Peter. “We could build a great big one together. Like a bunny snowman, or a—”
“No!” said Henry. “It’s my snowman. Build your own.”
“Moooommmm!
” wailed Peter. “Henry won’t let me build a snowman with him.”
“Don’t be horrid, Henry,” said Mom. “Why don’t you build one together?”
“NO!!!” said Horrid Henry. He wanted to make his own snowman.
If he built a snowman with his stupid worm brother, he’d have to share the prize. Well, no way. He wanted all that ice cream for himself. And his Abominable Snowman was sure to be the best. Why share a prize when you didn’t have to?
“Get away from my snowman, Peter,” hissed Henry.
Perfect Peter sniveled. Then he started to roll a tiny ball of snow.
“And get your own snow,” said Henry. “All this is mine.”
“Mooooom!” wailed Peter. “Henry’s hogging all the snow.”
* * *
“We’re done,” trilled Moody Margaret. “Beat this if you can.”
Horrid Henry looked at Margaret and Susan’s snowgirl, complete with a big pink tutu wound around the waist. It was as big as Margaret.
“That old heap of snow is nothing compared to mine,” bragged Horrid Henry.
Moody Margaret and Sour Susan looked at Henry’s Abominable Snowman, complete with horned Viking helmet, fangs, and hairy scary claws. It was a few inches taller than Henry.
“Nah nah ne nah nah, mine’s bigger,” boasted Henry.
“Nah nah ne nah nah, mine’s better,” boasted Margaret.
“How do you like my snowman?” said Peter. “Do you think I could win?”
Horrid Henry stared at Perfect Peter’s tiny snowman. It didn’t even have a head, just a long, thin, lumpy body with two stones stuck in the top for eyes.
Horrid Henry howled with laughter.
“That’s the worst snowman I’ve ever seen,” said Henry. “It doesn’t even have a head. That’s a snow carrot.”
“It is not,” wailed Peter. “It’s a big bunny.”
“Henry! Peter! Dinner time,” called Mom.
Henry stuck out his tongue at Margaret.
“And don’t you dare touch my snowman.”
Margaret stuck out her tongue at Henry.
“And don’t you dare touch my snowgirl.”
“I’ll be watching you, Margaret.”
“I’ll be watching you, Henry.”
They glared at each other.
* * *
Henry woke.
What was that noise? Was Margaret sabotaging his snowman? Was Susan stealing his snow?
Horrid Henry dashed to the window.
Phew. There was his Abominable Snowman, big as ever, dwarfing every other snowman on the street. Henry’s was definitely the biggest, and the best. Mmm boy, he could taste that Triple Fudge Gooey Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter Marshmallow Custard ice cream right now.
Horrid Henry climbed back into bed.
A tiny doubt nagged him.
Was his snowman definitely bigger than Margaret’s?
’Course it was, thought Henry.
“Are you sure?” rumbled his tummy.
“Yeah,” said Henry.
“Because I really want that ice cream,” growled his tummy. “Why don’t you double-check?”
Horrid Henry got out of bed.
He was sure his was bigger and better than Margaret’s. He was absolutely sure his was bigger and better.
But what if—
I can’t sleep without checking, thought Henry.
Tip toe.
Tip toe.
Tip toe.
Horrid Henry slipped out of the front door.
The whole street was silent and white and frosty. Every house had a snowman in front. All of them much smaller than Henry’s, he noted with satisfaction.
And there was his Abominable Snowman looming up, Viking horns scraping the sky. Horrid Henry gazed at him proudly. Next to him was Peter’s pathetic pimple, with its stupid black stones. A snow lump, thought Henry.
Then he looked over at Margaret’s snowgirl. Maybe it had fallen down, thought Henry hopefully. And if it hadn’t, maybe he could help it on its way…
He looked again. And again. That evil fiend!
Margaret had sneaked an extra ball of snow on top, complete with a huge flowery hat.
That little cheater, thought Horrid Henry indignantly. She’d sneaked out after bedtime and made hers bigger than his. How dare she? Well, he’d fix Margaret. He’d add more snow to his right away.
Horrid Henry looked around. Where could he find more snow? He’d already used up every drop on his front lawn to build his giant, and no new snow had fallen.
Henry shivered.
Brr, it was freezing. He needed more snow, and he needed it fast. His slippers were starting to feel very wet and cold.
Horrid Henry eyed Peter’s pathetic lump of snow. Hmmm, thought Horrid Henry.
Hmmm, thought Horrid Henry again.
Well, it’s not doing any good sitting there, thought Henry. Someone could trip over it. Someone could hurt himself. In fact, Peter’s snow lump was a danger. He had to act fast before someone fell over it and broke a leg.
Quickly, he scooped up Peter’s snowman and stacked it carefully on top of his. Then, standing on his tippy-toes, he balanced the Abominable Snowman’s Viking horns on top.
Ta-da!
Much better. And much bigger than Margaret’s.
Teeth chattering, Horrid Henry sneaked back into his house and crept into bed. Ice cream, here I come, thought Horrid Henry.
Ding dong.
Horrid Henry jumped out of bed. What a morning to oversleep.
Perfect Peter ran and opened the door.
“We’re from the Frosty Freeze Ice Cream Factory,” said the man, beaming. “And you’ve got the winning snowman out front.”
“I won!” screeched Horrid Henry. “I won!” He tore down the stairs and out the door. Oh what a wonderful, wonderful day. The sky was blue. The sun was shining—huh???
Horrid Henry looked around.
Horrid Henry’s Abominable Snowman was gone.
“Margaret!” screamed Henry. “I’ll kill you!”
But Moody Margaret’s snowgirl was gone too.
The Abominable Snowman’s helmet lay on its side on the ground. All that was left of Henry’s snowman was…Peter’s pimple, with its two black stone eyes. A big blue ribbon was pinned to the top.
“But that’s my snowman,” said Perfect Peter.
“But…but…” said Horrid Henry.
“You mean, I won?” said Peter.
“That’s wonderful, Peter,” said Mom.
“That’s fantastic, Peter,” said Dad.
“All the others melted,” said the Frosty Freeze man. “Yours was the only one left. It must have been a giant.”
“It was,” howled Horrid Henry.
Horrid Henry was bored. Horrid Henry was fed up. He’d been banned from the computer for rampaging through Our Town Museum. He’d been banned from watching TV just because he was caught watching a teeny tiny bit extra after he’d been told to switch it off right after Mutant Max. Could he help it if an exciting new series about a rebel robot had started right after? How would he know if it were any good unless he watched some of it?
It was completely unfair and all Peter’s fault for telling on him, and Mom and Dad were the meanest, most horrible parents in the world.
And now he was stuck indoors, all day long, with absolutely nothing to do.
The rain splattered down. The house was gray. The world was gray. The universe was gray.
“I’m bored!” wailed Horrid Henry.
“Read a book,” said Mom.
“Do your homework,” said Dad.
“NO!” said Horrid Henry.
“Then tidy your room,” said Mom.
“Unload the dishwasher,” said Dad.
“NO WAY!” shrieked Horrid Henry. What was he, a slave? Better keep out of his parents’ way or they’d come up with even more horrible things for him to do.
Horrid Henry stomped up to his boring bedroom and slammed the door. Uggh. He hated all his toys. He hated all his music. He hated all his games.
UGGGHHHHHH! What could he do?
Aha.
He could always check to see what Peter was up to.
Perfect Peter was sitting in his room arranging stamps in his stamp album.
“Peter is a baby, Peter is a baby,” jeered Horrid Henry, sticking his head around the door.
“Don’t call me baby,” said Perfect Peter.
“OK, duke of poop,” said Henry.
“Don’t call me duke!” shrieked Peter.
“OK, poopsicle,” said Henry.
“MOOOOM!” wailed Peter. “Henry called me poopsicle!”
“Don’t be horrid, Henry!” shouted Mom. “Stop calling your brother names.”
Horrid Henry smiled sweetly at Peter.
“OK, Peter, ’cause I’m so nice, I’ll let you make a list of ten names that you don’t want to be called,” said Henry. “And it will only cost you $1.”
A dollar! Perfect Peter could not believe his ears. Peter would pay much more than that never to be called poopsicle again.
“Is this a trick, Henry?” said Peter.
“No,” said Henry. “How dare you? I make you a good offer, and you accuse me. Well, just for that—”
“Wait,” said Peter. “I accept.” He handed Henry a dollar bill. At last, all those horrid names would be banned. Henry would never call him duke of poop again.
Peter got out a piece of paper and a pencil.
Now, let’s see, what to put on the list, thought Peter. Poopsicle, for a start. And I hate being called baby and diaper face and duke of poop. Peter wrote and wrote and wrote.
“OK, Henry, here’s the list,” said Peter.
Horrid Henry scanned the list. “Fine, stinky pants,” said Henry. “Sorry, I meant poopy pants. Or was it smelly diaper?”
Horrid Henry and the Abominable Snowman Page 1