Humboldt Brecht
hesitated.
It was a long way
down. Could he summon up the courage to
throw himself off the platform and surrender to gravity? Could he conquer his lifetime fear of not
flying? He glanced first to the left,
then to the right. Then he glanced to
the right again, and back to the left.
It didn't seem to help.
The queue behind
him was growing impatient, muttering and shuffling. He half expected a sudden hand on his back to egg him on in no
uncertain fashion. Finally he took
himself by surprise, grabbed the bar and swung his feet forward. To his astonishment he did not hurtle
downwards as he expected, but remained sitting where he was. This was easier than he had expected.
He hadn't quite
grasped the essential principles of the procedures, it seems. Perhaps he should let go of the bar.
Now he was sliding
rapidly down the chute and round the curve in the not-quite-torrent of water
designed to ease travellers' passage, in the prescribed position, flat on back,
arms folded across chest, which he realised was exactly the same position one
is traditionally laid to rest in. He
momentarily considered the braking effect of jamming his feet against the sides
of the chute, but he was in the tunnel now, climbing up the side as he rounded
Wet Man's Bend. He didn't want to get
stuck in there.
Finally he shot out
of the end, rising for a second into the air before plunging into the splash
pool. His feet floated up and stuck in
the air while his head submerged, but in a trice he was back up and floating
happily in a sitting position. He had
done it at last! He had gone down the
water-slide!
It was while he was
basking there in his pride that his friend Fatty Melhurst bombed out of the
chute behind him, splashing heavily on top of him, squashing him to the bottom
of the pool.
"Humboldt? Humboldt?
You did it, man! Where are
you?"
Luckily, Melhurst
realised what had happened when he saw the air bubbles squobbling up between
his legs.
Well, that's what
HE said it was.