Toad Rage - Morris Gleitzman [30]
“They're not… dead?” he whispered.
The mosquito shook his head. “Plastic,” he said. “Be a good event for you blokes.” He looked at Limpy's crook leg. “Specially you, cause to chuck 'em you have to go round in circles.”
Normally Limpy would have eaten anyone who made a crack about his crook leg, but the mosquito sounded genuinely helpful.
Before Limpy had a chance to explain that he could never throw anything that looked like an uncle, the crowd in the stadium gave a roar.
“Come and see this,” said the mosquito, beckoning Limpy and Goliath over to the windowsill.
They went over and peered through the window.
Far below, in the center of the stadium, a tiny figure with its hair in a ponytail was running with a big stick held over its head.
“If she gets this jump,” said the mosquito, “she's in the final.”
Limpy gasped.
It was the girl.
Limpy gazed down at the tiny figure as she jammed the stick into the ground and went soaring high on the end of it, up, up, over the crossbar.
The crowd roared so loudly the window shook.
“She's done it,” yelled the mosquito, dancing around on the windowsill. “An Aussie pole-vaulter's in the final. Great little athlete, that one. I've bitten her heaps.”
Limpy couldn't take his eyes off the girl as she waved delightedly to the crowd.
That could be me, he thought. If only …
His dreams were shattered by the sound of dogs barking and human voices shouting.
Close.
Very close.
“Oops,” said the mosquito. “I forgot to mention. After your little stunt at the dinner the other night, cane toads are public enemy number one around here. Kill on sight, I think I heard the security chief say. Good luck. Oh, if you see any deodorant, bung it on. At the moment, those dogs can smell you miles away.”
The mosquito buzzed out a window up near the ceiling. The only window in the room, Limpy saw, that wasn't sealed.
It was too high to hop up to.
The dogs were getting closer.
“Oh no,” croaked Goliath. “I've only had experience with one dog. One dog's all I can cope with. I'm hopeless with packs.”
Limpy's brain was racing.
There wasn't even time to get back to the shower room.
“I can't see any deodorant,” Goliath was shouting, rummaging through toilet bags in a frenzy. “We're going to die.”
Then Limpy saw two sticks leaning against the wall next to the high window. They were long, thin sticks, each with a metal hook on the end for opening and closing the window.
Limpy grabbed them and pushed one into Goliath's hands.
Suddenly he knew what to do.
The drain was cold and full of car fumes, and the water had smelly blobs of chemical factory sludge and congealed cooking fat floating in it.
Limpy didn't care.
All he could think of as he splashed along next to Goliath was the wonderful feeling.
The wonderful soaring feeling.
Okay, at first it had been a terrified feeling. As Limpy had sprinted across the changing room floor, stick held above his head, he'd felt himself starting to veer off to one side. He knew that if the veer turned into a circle, he'd crash into the pile of discuses and still be dragging himself out from under them when the guard dogs arrived.
He could hear them getting closer.
They sounded bigger than the one at the restaurant. Fiercer too probably, and specially trained not to swallow anything that came out of a toad's glands.
Limpy begged his crook leg to stay strong.
Although he was still veering, he didn't crash into the discuses.
Instead he jammed the far end of his stick under a bench, gripped his end, and flung himself upward in the biggest hop of his life.
He felt the stick bend as he went upward and then, miraculously, straighten out again and carry him soaring, soaring, through the high window.
Even after he let go of the stick, he carried on soaring, arms wide, yelling with fear and excitement and so much joy he didn't know how he could ever feel more joyful. Until he saw Goliath soaring next to him, eyes bulging and tongue plastered across his face, and did.
“Yes!”
Limpy heard his voice echoing down the drain and realized