Free Toad Rage by Morris Gleitzman Page A

a man was being interviewed.
    “He's one of the major sponsors of the Games,” said the beetle. “One of his companies grows sugar. He'll tell you.”
    Limpy's mind was racing.
    Thoughts he'd never had before were crashing around inside him.
    How dare they?
    How dare humans be so cruel to us when we didn't even ask to be here in the first place?
    When they brought us here.
    It's an injustice.
    It's a scandal.
    It's not on.
    Limpy looked up at the telly screen again.
    The Major Sponsor was having a laugh with the interviewer. He looked like a man who was used to getting his own way.
    Good, thought Limpy, his warts glowing with anger. Because I need somebody to help me stop this injustice, and I choose you.

“H ang on,” whispered Limpy. “Corner coming.”
    “I don't like it,” said Goliath. “I want to get off.”
    Limpy sighed.
    “You didn't have to come,” he whispered. “I could have done it on my own.”
    “I wouldn't have come,” said Goliath sulkily. “Not if you'd told me I'd have to get this close to a fruit salad. You know I hate fruit.”
    “Hide behind the cream trifle then,” whispered Limpy. “Or the chocolate mousse.”
    “I don't like cream or chocolate either,” said Goliath. “Why can't I hide behind a worm stew?”
    “Because,” whispered Limpy, warts prickling with exasperation, “we're on a dessert trolley. Humans don't eat worm stew for dessert. Not once on telly have I seen a human eat a worm stew for dessert.”
    Goliath looked amazed.
    “What?” he squeaked. “Not even with slug topping?”
    Limpy slapped his hand over Goliath's mouth. “Quiet,” he whispered.
    The waiter was coming back to the trolley.
    Limpy and Goliath clung to the shuddering fruit salad bowl as the trolley was wheeled over the thick restaurant carpet to the next table.
    “How long till we get there?” whined Goliath for what Limpy calculated must be the hundred-billionth time.
    Limpy sighed.
    “Not long,” he said.
    He peered out from behind the fruit salad bowl.
    Three tables to go.
    Three tables to the Major Sponsor's table.
    “If these humans see us, we're history,” moaned Goliath. “They might be dressed posh, but they'll still try to beat us to death with their ice cream spoons.”
    “They won't see us,” whispered Limpy. “Not if you keep quiet and keep your head down.”
    Limpy hoped he was right.
    Luckily most of the people in the restaurant were staring at a large screen on the stage, where the bloke with the clipboard was showing images of athletes doing athletic things.
    Limpy couldn't understand a word the bloke was saying.
    He didn't need to. He had a pretty good idea what was going on. The cane beetle had explained it all. How this was a special dinner for all the Games sponsors. So they could find out what world records the Games organizers were hoping would be broken in the various events.
    “Why do they want to know that?” Limpy had asked.
    “Advertising,” the cane beetle explained.
    Limpy still didn't understand.
    “Here's how it works,” the cane beetle had continued. “Imagine a TV ad. An athlete in bed with a heavy cold. Cut to the athlete breaking a world record, say for eating sugarcane. Cut to the athlete with a gold medal explaining how XYZ cold tablets clear blocked sinuses in record time. Get it?”
    Limpy had got it. And now, as the dessert trolley clattered over to the next table, he had another thought.
    Perhaps that's why most humans were so bad-tempered and angry.
    Blocked sinuses.
    Limpy peered out from behind the fruit salad bowl.
    Two tables to go.
    Two tables to the Major Sponsor's table.
    Limpy felt his warts tighten with nerves. And alsotingle with pride. The cane beetle had suggested sneaking into the sponsor's dinner, but the dessert trolley had been Limpy's idea.
    “This dessert trolley idea,” muttered Goliath, “is dopey.”
    Limpy ignored him.
    He ran through in his mind what he had to do when they finally got to the Major Sponsor's