Toad Rage - Morris Gleitzman [0]
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OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
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DONUTHEAD, Sue Stauffacher
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For Mary-Anne
G'DAY FROM THE AUTHOR
You might notice a few strange and exotic words in this book. Fear not! They won't hurt you, they're just Australian. To find out what they mean, choose one of the following options.
1. Put the book down, fly to Australia, ask a local, fly back, pick up the book, resume reading.
2. Have a squiz at the glossary on page 162.
Happy reading,
Morris Gleitzman
“Uncle Bart,” said Limpy. “Why do humans hate us?”
Uncle Bart looked down at Limpy and smiled fondly.
“Stack me, Limpy,” he chuckled, “you are an idiot.”
Limpy felt his warts prickle with indignation as Uncle Bart hopped onto the road after a bull ant.
No wonder I've never heard any other cane toad ask that question, thought Limpy, if that's the reply you get.
Limpy was glad the grass at the edge of the highway was taller than he was. At least the millions of insects flying around the railway crossing light couldn't see who Uncle Bart was calling an idiot.
“Humans don't hate us,” Uncle Bart was saying, his mouth full of bull ant and grasshopper. “What are you on about? Stack me, some of the dopey ideas you youngsters come up with …”
Limpy waited patiently for Uncle Bart to finish. Uncle Bart was his fattest uncle, and his bossiest. When Uncle Bart had a point to make, he liked to keep on making it until you gave in and looked convinced.
Tonight, though, Limpy didn't give in.
He didn't have to. While Uncle Bart was getting his mucus in a knot about how humans definitely didn't hate cane toads, a truck came roaring round the corner in a blaze of lights, straightened up, rumbled through the railway crossing, swerved across the road straight at Uncle Bart, and drove over him.
Limpy trembled in the grass while the truck thundered past in a cloud of diesel fumes and flying grit. Then he hopped onto the road and looked down at what was left of Uncle Bart.
The light overhead was very bright because it had a whole railway crossing to illuminate, and Limpy was able to see very clearly that Uncle Bart wasn't his fattest uncle anymore.
Flattest, more like, he thought sadly.
“See,” he said quietly to Uncle Bart. “That's what I'm on about.”
“Har har har,” chortled a nearby grasshopper. “Your uncle's a place mat. Serves him right.”
Limpy ignored the grasshopper and turned to watch the truck speeding away into the darkness. From the movement of its taillights he could tell it was weaving from side to side. Each time it weaved, he heard the distant “pop” of another relative being run over.
“Yay,” shouted the grasshopper. “More place mats.”
Limpy sighed.
He decided not to eat the grasshopper. Mum was always warning him he'd get a bellyache if he ate when he was upset or angry.
To take his mind off Uncle Bart, Limpy crossed the road to have a look at Uncle Roly.
Uncle Roly was extremely flat too, but at least he was smiling.
Which is what you'd expect, thought Limpy sadly, from your kindest uncle, even when he has been dead for two nights.
Limpy reached forward and gently prodded Uncle Roly. He was dry and stiff. The hot Queensland sun had done its job.
Limpy remembered how Uncle Roly had never been dry and stiff when he was alive. He'd always had a warm smile for everyone, even the family of holidaymakers two evenings ago who'd purposely aimed their car straight for him down the wrong side of the road.
“Oh, Uncle Roly,” whispered Limpy. “Couldn't