Toad Rage - Morris Gleitzman [9]
And on the other side of it, sitting in the middle of the road, glaring at them and waving a stick, was a figure he recognized immediately.
Goliath.
The truck was accelerating over the crossing.
“Goliath,” yelled Limpy. “Get out of the way.”
They were heading straight for him.
“Jump,” screamed Limpy. “Jump to one side.”
Goliath jumped.
Too late.
The truck, with Limpy hanging on to the back frozen with horror, thundered over the top of Goliath.
“No!” cried Limpy.
He spun round, staring back at the circle of light on the road, desperately hoping to see Goliath still standing there waving his stick.
Or even tottering around, dazed.
Nothing.
Not even a blob of squashed skin and warts.
Limpy turned back and put his anguished face against the back of the truck. Goliath must have been hit so hard he'd been pressed into the surface of the road.
Limpy felt sadness draining the strength out of his arms and his good leg. As the truck thundered into the night, one thought helped him hang on.
At least Charm hadn't been there.
This time.
By the next morning, Limpy was the world's biggest fan of brake lights.
Not only were they really useful to hang on to, but when you were spending a long night in the freezing slipstream at the back of a truck, they kept you alive.
Every time the truck hit its brakes, the brake light bulb glowed and sent a beautiful burst of warmth through your aching body.
Mmmmm.
Except now that the sun was up and climbing fast, Limpy was starting to feel a bit too warm.
He was particularly worried about his armpits.
The problem with hanging on to a brake light was that your armpits were exposed, and as the sun got higher, that could be a real problem.
Toast, thought Limpy anxiously. Fairly soon my pits'll be toast.
The brake light came on again and stayed on for a long time while the truck slowed down.
Limpy felt himself overheating and becoming not quite such a big fan of brake lights.
Then he realized the truck was turning off the highway.
Phew, thought Limpy. At last. We're here.
The truck drove into a town.
Limpy knew it was a town because he'd seen photos of towns in the magazines people chucked out of cars.
The truck drove into the center of the town and parked in a loading dock.
Limpy didn't know it was a loading dock because magazines don't have many photos of loading docks. All Limpy cared about was that he'd arrived at the place where he could get good disguises.
And then, thought Limpy happily, no more flat rellies.
He tensed.
The driver's door had just slammed and he could hear the driver coming round to the back of the truck.
Limpy let go of the brake light and dropped to the floor.
His arms and legs were stiff and numb and he could hardly move, but he managed to hobble behind some trolleys.
Peering out, he saw the driver fiddling with the back doors of the truck. A man in a suit appeared and pointed to his watch and pointed to his clipboard and said angry things to the driver. The driver scratched himself under his singlet and shrugged. He opened the truck doors and started lifting out big cardboard boxes. The man in the suit started opening the boxes.
Limpy stared.
Inside the boxes were huge numbers of small furry toys.
Limpy knew they were small furry toys because kids sometimes threw small furry toys out of cars, usually with sick on them.
Limpy gaped as the man in the suit opened still more boxes.
These weren't just any small furry toys.
They were platypuses and echidnas and kookaburras.
Limpy wondered why humans were so keen on platypuses, echidnas, and kookaburras. He'd met a few and they'd seemed pretty average. Nice enough, but nothing to paint a truck about.
Then Limpy noticed something else about the fluffy toys.
Not only did they not have sick on them, they were exactly the right size, if you pulled the stuffing out, for a cane toad to climb inside.
Perfect disguises.
Yes, thought Limpy ecstatically. All I've got to figure out now is how to get heaps of these toys back home without the man in the suit flattening me with his clipboard.
Limpy