“Yes, that’s it,” said Bertie.
“But that’s amazing,” said Mum. “I was reading in the local paper that it’s coming here. I’ve always wanted to see it.”
Bertie wiped his mouth. “I don’t see what the fuss is about, it’s only some old picture,” he said.
“It’s a Van Boff,” said Mum. “Do you know what that painting is worth?”
“Miss Boot says millions,” replied Bertie.
“Yes, and it’s world famous – everyone knows it,” said Mum.
“I don’t,” Bertie said.
“No, but you’re going to see it,” said Mum. “I wish I was going. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
Bertie sniffed. Everyone kept telling him how lucky he was, but he’d much rather Miss Boot took them to Chocolate World. They gave away free chocolate bars to every visitor – now that would be lucky!
Class 3 filed into the art gallery behind Miss Boot and Mr Weakly. They had arrived early to avoid the crowds.
“Right,” said Miss Boot. “Let me remind you that this is an art gallery, not a playground. There’ll be no running or fighting and no eating sweets or crisps. Most importantly, I don’t want you TOUCHING. Is that clear, Bertie?”
“Touching what?” asked Bertie.
“Touching anything,” said Miss Boot.
Bertie sighed heavily. Why did teachers always pick on him? All he’d done was get off the coach!
Mr Weakly came round handing out some worksheets that the gallery had supplied. Bertie looked around at the paintings.
“Sir, which is the one that’s worth millions?” he asked.
“The Van Boff? Ah, that’s in a room by itself,” said Mr Weakly. “They’re letting us see it later.”
Miss Boot split the class into two groups to go round the gallery. Luckily Bertie and his friends were in Mr Weakly’s group. Mr Weakly was a nervous young teacher whose speech was peppered with “ahhs”, “errs” and “umms”. Bertie had never even heard him raise his voice – apart from the time he got locked in the store cupboard.
They wandered round the gallery, looking at the paintings. Bertie stared at a picture of people in big hats having a picnic. It made him hungry. His mum had given him some spending money and on the way in he’d spotted a gift shop. But the teachers wouldn’t let him near it. Unless… Bertie had an idea. He pressed his pencil on to his worksheet.
SNAP!
That should do the trick. Now to ask Mr Weakly.
“My pencil’s broken, sir,” complained Bertie, holding it up.
“Oh dear!” said Mr Weakly. “Don’t you have another one?”
“No,” said Bertie.
“Well, ah … surely someone could lend you one?”
“They can’t,” said Bertie. “But it’s fine, they sell pencils in the shop.”
“Do they? Oh well… Mmm,” said Mr Weakly. He looked round for Miss Boot, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m not sure we’re allowed in the shop yet,” he said.
“It’s okay, it won’t take a minute!” said Bertie. He hurried off before Mr Weakly could say any more. Now what could he buy with his spending money?
“Where have you been?” asked Darren.
Bertie wiped chocolate from round his mouth.
“Gift shop,” he said. “And look what I got. It was in the Bargain Bin.”
He checked that no teachers were about and pulled something from his pocket.
“A WATER PISTOL!” cried Eugene.
“Shh! Keep your voice down!” hissed Bertie. “It works too. I filled it up in the boys’ toilets.”
“Better not let Miss Boot see it,” said Darren. “She’ll go mad.”
Bertie looked around for a suitable victim. Now, who could he squirt? Trevor? Royston Rich? Or what about that sneaky show-off…
“I’ve finished!” boasted Nick, waving his worksheet. “And I bet I got them all right too.”
Perfect timing, thought Bertie. He raised his water pistol and took aim.
Nick gaped at him. “Where did you get that?” he squawked.
“From the shop,” smiled Bertie.
“Let’s see if it works, shall we?”
“HEEEEELP!”
Nick skidded round a corner, panting for breath. Bertie raced after him, the water pistol in his hand.
“Aha! Got you now!” Bertie cried.
The room was empty.
“Keep away!” moaned Nick. “I’ll tell Miss Boot!”
“She’s not here,” said Bertie.
“I’ll scream!” wailed Nick.
“Prepare to die,” said Bertie, aiming the water pistol. His finger tightened on the trigger.
SQUIRT!
At the last moment Nick ducked under a rail, escaping into a side room.
Rats! Why can’t he stay still? thought Bertie. The side room was small and dimly lit. Something stood on an easel partly covered by a pair of red velvet curtains. Nick’s face suddenly shot out from behind it.
“CAN’T CATCH ME!” he yelled.
SQUOOOOOOSH!
Bertie squirted a big jet of water. He missed, hitting the red curtains instead.
Nick crept out from behind the easel.
“Umm, look what you’ve done!” he said.
Bertie pulled back the curtains. He gasped. Underneath was a painting he recognized straight away. Van Boff’s Sunflowers! It was worth millions and he’d just squirted it. Water had splashed the curtain and dripped down the painting, plopping on the floor.
Nick stared, wide-eyed. “You are dead.”
“It’s only water, it’ll come off,” said Bertie. He reached out, dabbing the wet patch with his sleeve.
“Don’t touch it!” warned Nick. But it was too late. Bertie stared at the smudge of green paint on his sleeve. He gulped. This couldn’t be happening! If Miss Boot found out, the art gallery would have him arrested. His mum and dad would have to sell the house and probably his sister to pay the money back.
Nick was backing away, eager to escape. “I’m telling!” he said.
“You can’t!” begged Bertie. “They’ll kill me.”
“You should have thought of that when you bought a water pistol,” said Nick.
“If you tell tales, I’ll say it was your fault,” said Bertie.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
Nick frowned. He didn’t want to risk getting in trouble – and he shouldn’t have entered the room in the first place.
“Okay, I won’t tell,” he said. “But the painting’s your problem.”
He ducked under the rail and hurried off.
Left alone, Bertie stared at the smudged, priceless painting. Any moment now someone might come in and discover what he’d done. He had to think fast. Maybe he could hide the painting? But Mr Weakly said people were coming in to see it. If only he could make it look like new.
Bertie’s eyes lit up. Of course! It was only a bunch of droopy flowers in a vase. Anyone could draw that! All he needed was paper and Eugene’s felt-tip pens. By the time he’d finished, his picture would be as good as a Van Boff – probably even better! But first he had to hide the real thing.
An hour later, Miss Boot gathered her class together. The great moment had arrived. The art gallery was about to present Van Boff’s Sunflowers in Room 21.
“Now, follow me,” said Miss Boot. “If we hurry, we should get a good view.”
They made their way to Room 21, following people who were heading the same way. Bertie caught Nick’s eye and put a finger to his lips. If they both kept their mouths shut maybe they’d come out of this alive.
They filed into the small room, which was already filling up with people. In the centre stood the priceless painting, hidden under the curtains and bathed in a spotlight. The crowd parted to let the class through to the front. Bertie wouldn’t have minded staying at the back, in case he needed to make a quick exit.
The director of the gallery stepped forward. Bertie
held his breath. This was it – the moment he’d been dreading!
“Well, thank you all for coming,” said the director. “This is a very proud day for the City Gallery. It is my pleasure to present one of the world’s greatest masterpieces … Van Boff’s Sunflowers!”
She pulled on a cord and the red curtains swished back. The crowd gasped. The painting in front of them showed flowers in a vase, but it wasn’t a Van Boff. It was a Van Bertie.
The flowers were messy blobs of red and brown drawn in felt-tip pen. They drooped from a vase that looked like a dog bowl. In one corner someone had signed the picture “VAN BIFF” in childish handwriting.
The director stared, holding her head. “Is this some sort of joke?” she said. “Where is the Van Boff?”
Bertie had gone bright red. It didn’t look like they had got away with it. The director was phoning someone. Security guards rushed in while everyone talked at once.
Suddenly Miss Boot stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you mind if I take a closer look?”
She bent over to inspect the blobby picture. Something about the style was familiar – the messy colours, the terrible handwriting. She groaned. Of course – she might have known!
“BERTIE!” boomed Miss Boot. “I want a word with you.”
Uh oh, thought Bertie. How did she know it was him?
He trailed out to the front.
“Did you draw this picture, Bertie?” demanded Miss Boot.
“Me?” said Bertie. “N-no!”
“Show me your hands,” ordered Miss Boot.
Bertie held them out. He had felt-tip pen on his fingers and paint on his sleeve.
“I’ll ask you one last time,” said Miss Boot. “Is this your picture?”
“Um…”
“It wasn’t my fault!” wailed Know-All Nick. “He chased me with a water pistol!”
Bertie rolled his eyes. Trust Know-All Nick to give the game away.
Miss Boot’s eyes blazed. “Where is it, Bertie?” she thundered. “What have you done with the real Van Boff?”
Bertie swallowed hard. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve hidden it somewhere really safe.”
Bertie reached up to grab his money box. There was a pirate telescope he needed to buy. With a telescope he could spy on his enemies and spot Miss Boot coming from a mile away.
He emptied out his cash.
PLINK!
Huh? Five measly pence! How come he never had any money? It was all right for his mum and dad – they had jobs. When Bertie grew up he was going to get a job that paid a fortune. He’d be a robot scientist or a chocolate taster or maybe King of England. But the trouble was he needed money now.
He thought hard. Maybe he could get a job. What about Darren’s cousin Neil? He had a paper round. If Bertie had a paper round he could buy a hundred telescopes. He’d tell Darren his idea tomorrow.
Neil went to the big school down the road. Bertie and Darren waited for him by the gates at home time.
“This is a brilliant idea,” said Darren. “I’m saving up for a new bike.”
“I’m buying a telescope,” said Bertie. “Look, isn’t that him?”
Neil came out of school, swinging his bag. He stopped when he saw them and listened as they explained their idea.
“A paper round? You two?” Neil laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve got to be thirteen at least.”
“We could look thirteen,” said Bertie. “Especially if we wear false beards.”
“Yeah, good one!” grinned Neil. “Anyway there’s nothing going, all the paper rounds are taken.”
“Are you sure?” asked Darren.
“I should know,” said Neil. “I had to wait six months to get one.”
Bertie and Darren looked disappointed. They had raised their hopes for nothing. Now they’d never earn any money. They turned to go – but Neil stopped them.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Where do you live?”
“Me? Fleaman Drive,” said Bertie.
“That’s on my round,” said Neil. “Listen, I’ll do you a big favour. I’ll pay you a pound to deliver papers to your street and Hazel Road.”
“A pound EACH?” said Darren.
“Do I look stupid?” said Neil. “A pound between you, that’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Bertie and Darren stepped aside to talk it over.
“A pound? It’s not very much,” grumbled Darren.
“But it’s better than nothing,” said Bertie. “And with both of us it wouldn’t take long.”
“True,” said Darren. “Okay, I’m in.”
They told Neil they would do it.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll come round tomorrow and drop off the papers.”
Neil watched them go, smiling to himself. For him it was definitely a good deal. He’d got rid of almost half of his paper round and it was only costing him one pound a week. That still left him seven pounds in his pocket. Best of all, he was losing the street that he always dreaded – Hazel Road. Poor little kids, he thought, they’ve no idea what’s in store for them.
Bertie arrived home and threw his bag down in the hall. He was excited about the paper round, but there was just one small problem. He hadn’t actually asked his parents yet.
He found his mum emptying the washing machine.
“Mum,” he began. “You know Darren’s cousin?”
“Not really,” replied Mum.
“The one with big ears.”
“That’s half the boys you know,” said Mum. “But what about him?”
“He’s got us a job!” said Bertie.
Mum stared. “A job? What kind of job?” she asked.
“A paper round,” said Bertie. “It’s okay, we’re getting paid.”
“You’re telling me a newsagent is paying you to deliver papers?” said Mum.
“Not a newsagent, Darren’s cousin,” said Bertie. He explained the deal they’d made with Neil. Mum frowned.
“What does Darren’s mum say about this?” she asked.
“She thinks it’s brilliant,” said Bertie. At least she would when Darren told her.
“Hmm,” said Mum. “I don’t want you crossing busy roads.”
“We won’t have to,” said Bertie. “It’s only our street and Hazel Road. Anyway, I’ll be with Darren.”
Mum rolled her eyes. Darren was about as sensible as a chimpanzee. Still, it might not be such a bad idea.
“Maybe it would do you good to earn some pocket money,” said Mum. “You might not spend it so quickly.”
“I wouldn’t!” said Bertie. “I’m saving up.”
Mum sighed. “All right, we’ll see how it goes.”
“YAY! Thanks!” cried Bertie.
“But don’t go any further than Hazel Road,” warned Mum.
“We won’t,” promised Bertie. He dashed off to phone Darren with the good news. Starting tomorrow they were going to be rich!
The next day Neil dropped off a big batch of newspapers at Bertie’s house.
Bertie and Darren stared at them.
“There’s hundreds,” moaned Darren. “It’ll take us forever!”
Bertie looked at his watch. “Danny’s Deadly Dinosaurs starts in half an hour,” he said. It was his favourite programme.
Darren sighed. “We’ll never make it back in time.”
“We will if we get a move on,” said Bertie.
They dumped out books, pens and apple cores from their school bags and divided the newspapers between them. It was a tight fit but they managed it.
They decided to begin on Hazel Road and work back to Bertie’s street.
The houses on Hazel Road had long driveways and tall iron gates. At first Bertie found the letterboxes too small, but he soon learned to roll up the newspapers. After a few houses he started to get into his stride. Across the road, he saw that Darren was keeping up. Bertie waved.
“Let’s speed up!” he called. “Ten minutes to finish this road.
”
“Easy,” said Darren. “I’m super quick.”
“I’m on fire,” said Bertie. If they carried on at this speed they’d be back in time to watch Danny’s Deadly Dinosaurs.
Bertie raced to the next house, pulling a paper from his bag. There was a red car in the driveway. He weaved round it, trampling the flowerbed.
THUNK! The newspaper whizzed through the letterbox. Bertie wheeled away, taking a shortcut across the lawn. Over the road Darren was zooming in and out of driveways like a greyhound. Bertie grabbed a bunch of newspapers and flung open the next gate. A garden gnome went flying as he skidded down the path. THUNK!
At number twenty the garden wall was only knee-high. Bertie cleared it in one go. THUNK! Another paper slammed home. The next wall was bigger, but it was still quicker than taking the drive. He threw over his bag and scrambled after it…
“GRRRRRR!”
Uh-oh. What was that? Bertie turned round slowly. A giant dog stood there, growling at him. It was the biggest dog he’d ever seen – bigger than a wolf. Its ears were folded back and its fur stood on end. Bertie gulped. It looked like the kind of dog that ate paper boys for breakfast.
“Good dog,” he squeaked. “I won’t hurt you.”
“GRRRRRR… RUFF!” barked the dog. It was wearing a collar with the name “Brutus” in big letters.
“Stay, Brutus, stay,” said Bertie. “I’m just going to put this paper through the letterbox, okay?”
He bent down slowly to take a newspaper from the bag. Brutus snarled, showing rows of sharp white teeth. “GRRR!”
Bertie dropped the paper and flew back over the wall, landing in a heap.
What now? This was impossible! How was he meant to deliver the paper with a giant dog trying to eat him alive?
Horror! Page 2