seat. From now on he vowed to clean his teeth ten times a day. He would even use toothpaste. He would give up sweets – apart from jelly snakes, obviously.
The dental nurse came in. “Bertie and Suzy Burns? Who’s going first?” she asked.
“Bertie,” said Suzy, pointing to him.
Bertie got shakily to his feet. This was it. He was a dead man.
“Good luck!” whispered Suzy. “Don’t wet your pants.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Mum.
Bertie shook his head. He wasn’t a baby.
The nurse had gone ahead. Bertie dragged himself down the corridor. Mr Filling’s surgery was the last room on the left. The door was slightly open and he could hear the dentist’s booming voice.
“Yes, it’s a real shame,” he said. “He’s only seven years old.”
“Is there nothing you can do?” the nurse asked.
“Afraid not. It’s the kindest way, he’ll have to be put to sleep.”
Bertie froze. His blood ran cold. Had he imagined it? No, he’d heard it with his own ears. The dentist was planning to put him to sleep … in other words, bump him off! Bertie gulped. Hadn’t he always said Mr Filling looked like a murderer? That explained why he wore gloves, so he didn’t leave fingerprints!
Bertie looked around wildly. He could run back and tell his mum. But she’d never believe him. “Mr Filling – a murderer? Don’t be silly, Bertie,” she’d laugh. No, there was only one thing for it – he had to escape. Bertie spotted a cloakroom to his right. He slipped inside and closed the door.
CHAPTER 3
Bertie paced up and down, trying to stay calm. He had to get out of here before the mad murderer came for him. The nurse was obviously his evil assistant – she’d probably been hypnotized. Somehow he had to make it past the receptionist without getting caught. But how?
He looked around. Maybe he could escape through the window? But it was too high up. Or down the toilet? Butwhat if he got stuck? His eye fell on some hats and coats hanging up beside the door. A disguise!
A minute later, Bertie slipped out of the cloakroom. He was dressed in a big grey overcoat, which dragged on the floor. He had a trilby hat pulled down over his eyes and a scarf wound round his face. He swept down the hall, trying hard not to trip on his coat-tails.
“Mr Froggat?”
Bertie halted. Did the receptionist mean him? He looked around. There was no one else about.
“Mr Froggat, if you’ve got a moment, please?” said the receptionist.
Bertie shuffled over to the desk, keeping his head down. The hat was too big and kept slipping over his eyes.
“We just need to book your next appointment,” said the receptionist. “When would you like to come?”
Bertie wobbled his head.
“Umm num num,” he mumbled.
“Sorry?” said the receptionist.
Bertie flapped his long sleeves.
“Umm num num,” he repeated.
“I see,” nodded the receptionist, who hadn’t understood a word.
“WHAT ABOUT THE 24th, MR FROGGAT?” she shouted, as if he was deaf. “IT’S A THURSDAY!”
Bertie nodded. He didn’t care what day it was, as long as he could go. The receptionist scribbled the date on a card and handed it to him.
“IS THAT ALL RIGHT?” she yelled.
“Num. Umm num,” mumbled Bertie, taking the card. He hurried away. It was touch and go, but he thought he’d got away with it. All he had to do now was make it down the stairs.
“Excuse me!”
A hand tapped him on the shoulder. Argh! It was his mum!
“Have you seen a small boy?” she asked. “About this big with a runny nose?”
Bertie shook his head firmly. The hat slipped over his eyes and fell off.
Uh-oh. There was only one thing to do. Run for it!
He made a dash for the stairs, but it was no use. Mum had hold of his scarf. She reeled him in.
“And where do you think you’re off to?” she said.
CHAPTER 4
Mum dragged Bertie back down the corridor to the surgery. Mr Filling turned round.
“Ah, Bertie, found you at last!” he beamed.
The dental nurse came in. “Bertie and Suzy Burns? Who’s going first?” she asked.
“Bertie,” said Suzy, pointing to him.
Bertie got shakily to his feet. This was it. He was a dead man.
“Good luck!” whispered Suzy. “Don’t wet your pants.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Mum.
Bertie shook his head. He wasn’t a baby.
The nurse had gone ahead. Bertie dragged himself down the corridor. Mr Filling’s surgery was the last room on the left. The door was slightly open and he could hear the dentist’s booming voice.
“Yes, it’s a real shame,” he said. “He’s only seven years old.”
“Is there nothing you can do?” the nurse asked.
“Afraid not. It’s the kindest way, he’ll have to be put to sleep.”
Bertie froze. His blood ran cold. Had he imagined it? No, he’d heard it with his own ears. The dentist was planning to put him to sleep … in other words, bump him off! Bertie gulped. Hadn’t he always said Mr Filling looked like a murderer? That explained why he wore gloves, so he didn’t leave fingerprints!
Bertie looked around wildly. He could run back and tell his mum. But she’d never believe him. “Mr Filling – a murderer? Don’t be silly, Bertie,” she’d laugh. No, there was only one thing for it – he had to escape. Bertie spotted a cloakroom to his right. He slipped inside and closed the door.
CHAPTER 3
Bertie paced up and down, trying to stay calm. He had to get out of here before the mad murderer came for him. The nurse was obviously his evil assistant – she’d probably been hypnotized. Somehow he had to make it past the receptionist without getting caught. But how?
He looked around. Maybe he could escape through the window? But it was too high up. Or down the toilet? Butwhat if he got stuck? His eye fell on some hats and coats hanging up beside the door. A disguise!
A minute later, Bertie slipped out of the cloakroom. He was dressed in a big grey overcoat, which dragged on the floor. He had a trilby hat pulled down over his eyes and a scarf wound round his face. He swept down the hall, trying hard not to trip on his coat-tails.
“Mr Froggat?”
Bertie halted. Did the receptionist mean him? He looked around. There was no one else about.
“Mr Froggat, if you’ve got a moment, please?” said the receptionist.
Bertie shuffled over to the desk, keeping his head down. The hat was too big and kept slipping over his eyes.
“We just need to book your next appointment,” said the receptionist. “When would you like to come?”
Bertie wobbled his head.
“Umm num num,” he mumbled.
“Sorry?” said the receptionist.
Bertie flapped his long sleeves.
“Umm num num,” he repeated.
“I see,” nodded the receptionist, who hadn’t understood a word.
“WHAT ABOUT THE 24th, MR FROGGAT?” she shouted, as if he was deaf. “IT’S A THURSDAY!”
Bertie nodded. He didn’t care what day it was, as long as he could go. The receptionist scribbled the date on a card and handed it to him.
“IS THAT ALL RIGHT?” she yelled.
“Num. Umm num,” mumbled Bertie, taking the card. He hurried away. It was touch and go, but he thought he’d got away with it. All he had to do now was make it down the stairs.
“Excuse me!”
A hand tapped him on the shoulder. Argh! It was his mum!
“Have you seen a small boy?” she asked. “About this big with a runny nose?”
Bertie shook his head firmly. The hat slipped over his eyes and fell off.
Uh-oh. There was only one thing to do. Run for it!
He made a dash for the stairs, but it was no use. Mum had hold of his scarf. She reeled him in.
“And where do you think you’re off to?” she said.
CHAPTER 4
Mum dragged Bertie back down the corridor to the surgery. Mr Filling turned round.
“Ah, Bertie, found you at last!” he beamed.
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