The Wombles Read Free Page B

east.
    Orinoco gave a dreadful groan and gripped the umbrella handle harder than ever. Because of his fatness he had stopped climbing trees some time ago and he had rather lost his head for heights, and in any case this was a great deal higher than any Womble had ever been before. If he could have gone green with fright and airsickness Orinoco would have done so, but as it was all he could do was to groan.
    Far, far below Bungo was nearly as worried as Orinoco. Supposing he was blown right over London? Supposing he hit some tall trees or a building or got caught in some wires? Supposing he was never seen again? All kinds of dreadful ideas went through Bungo’s mind as he ran puffing and panting over the grass trying to keep up with Orinoco’s progress through the sky.
    It was the umbrella, which had started all the trouble, that put an end to the awful journey. It had never been made to be blown through the air with a fat Womble hanging on to it, and quite suddenly there was a horrible creaking sound above Orinoco’s head and as he looked up he saw the umbrella shiver and shake and then there was a ripping noise and all the spokes rushed upwards and the umbrella turned itself inside out. It was Orinoco’s good fortune that it chose to do this just as they scudded over Queen’s Mere.
    ‘ Yow! ’ yelled Orinoco.
    The air rushed past him, flattening his fur, and he began to fall faster and faster until there was a whistling sound in his ears.
    ‘ Yooow! ’ roared Orinoco and shut his eyes and the next moment he hit the lake with a tremendous smack, sending up a great shower of water and making every duck swim for cover as hard as it could go. Down and down went Orinoco right to the muddy bottom, and then with his head whirling and his mouth – which had been open at the time – full of weeds he rose slowly to the surface, the umbrella still tightly grasped between his paws.
    ‘I’m coming,’ panted Bungo, sliding and slipping down the steep bank, and he dived into the Mere for the second time that morning.
    Orinoco rolled over on to his back and lay quite still with his eyes closed, his paws crossed over his stomach, the umbrella held between them.
    ‘I’ve got you,’ puffed Bungo, fighting his way through the ripples, for Orinoco’s fall had set up a widening circle of tidal waves which were now splashing on to the ground. And he put his paws over Orinoco’s ears and began to pull him towards dry land, paddling as hard as he could go. Orinoco, as stiff as a poker, was hauled wet and extremely muddy on to the path.
    ‘Are you dead?’ Bungo asked anxiously.
    ‘Yes,’ said Orinoco in a feeble voice, without opening his eyes.
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Bungo.
    ‘Very, very nearly dead anyway,’ said Orinoco, opening one eye a little. ‘What are you laughing at? Being nearly dead is not at all funny.’
    ‘No, rather not,’ said Bungo, snuffling behind his paw.
    ‘When I think of what I’ve been through,’ said Orinoco, opening the other eye and looking sternly at the quivering Bungo, ‘I expect sympathy, not giggling. If you only knew what it was like!’ And he shivered violently.
    ‘I’m sorry, truly I am,’ said Bungo, putting both paws over his mouth. ‘But all the same, Orinoco, if you only knew what you look like with weeds in your fur – and your hat’s gone very p-peculiar.’
    ‘My hat?’ said Orinoco weakly, and sat up.
    Instead of a boater he was now wearing what looked like a bonnet, for the straw had gone all soggy and, what with that, and the mud and the weeds and the relief, Bungo could contain himself no longer and he flopped down on the ground and laughed until his stomach ached and the tears squeezed out of his eyes.
    ‘If you only knew what you l-looked like,’ Bungo said wheezily. ‘Flying through the air and groaning and moaning and then zip, bang, crash, wallop, down into the water and then bubble, bubble, slosh, bosh, up again and now – ho, ho, ho, HO !’
    ‘I don’t