Chapter Eight - Spring, Rafts, and Gophers

Spring came soon enough, along with the spring dares. It was the time when cold and warm decided to share the day. The warm sun created ponds from the snow during the day, and the cold of the night froze the surfaces by morning. A classic dare was to see if you could cross the ice without falling through. It was always best to include a heavier person in the group to increase the probability of “fun.”

The Morons gathered at the southern end of the schoolyard one spring morning. Ice had formed over the pond, overflowing the ditch beside the road and spilling over the small ball diamond at the corner of the yard.

The dares began to see who could cross the ice without falling in. The promise of a revel was soon at stake. “It’s not a good dare,” Two-Ton complained. “If a guy crosses the pond, nothing happens. Nobody gets to laugh, and the guy receives a reward of a revel. A better dare is if the guy who falls into the drink gets rewarded. Nobody wants to fall through the ice, so reward the guy who provides the laughs.”

The rest of the Morons agreed. “But,” insisted Blondie, “the guy who breaks through the ice has to complete the crossing. He can’t turn back and claim the prize.” Without saying a word, the crowd determined Two-Ton to be the last one to cross after the rest had weakened the ice.

Honey went first. He crossed the ice as quickly and lightly as possible. The surface heaved and crackled under his weight. Relieved, he made it to the safety of the road.

Others went, making sure each had a different starting point to ensure they had weakened every stretch of ice. Poobah chose the western end of the pond near the row of trees. Trying to tread lightly, Poobah traversed quickly over the ice, so his foot wasn’t on the surface at any one spot long enough for it to break. Still, he could see the water bubble up on the ice where the ice met the tree trunks. Hearing the ice crackle, encouraged Poobah to move even more quickly until he reached the frozen mud at the other side to a chorus of cheers. Everyone arrived at the road.

Two-Ton was the last to go. His friends had thoroughly weakened the ice from one end to the other. He was also the heaviest of the group. “Come on, Two-Ton. We dare you to cross.” Two-Ton was reluctant. He didn’t want to sit through classes all day, wet and cold. But this would still be a better option than running home with his pants forming frozen tubes around his legs. Two-Ton shivered, thinking of it. “Come on, Moron,” taunted the crew from the other side.

Against his better judgment, Two-Ton tentatively took his first step, then his second. The ice seemed stable enough. His third step broke through the frozen pond, and Two-Ton sank to his ankle. The ice-cold water seeped into his shoe, numbing his foot. It made no sense turning back. He might as well amuse the masses and collect the revel. As each step shattered the ice, the deeper water crept up his pant legs. The crowd roared. As Two-Ton neared the ditch, the drop was greater then he anticipated. As he stumbled, the ice-water filled his pants to his waist. Fiedelbaum reached out and helped him make the last couple of steps up to the road. Two-Ton thought of pulling him into the water to join him, but Fiedelbaum was only trying to help. The bank was slippery, and he could be worse off without Fiedelbaum’s help than he was now.

Mary stopped by the pond to see what the fuss was. She saw Two-Ton in water above his knees, and could only shake her head. “I guess it’s what morons do,” she said to herself.

Two-Ton stood like a quivering tree, dripping icy water to the ground as if he had endured a spring shower. The water squelched in his shoes as he stiffly walked around the pond, trying not to let the coldness of his wet pants touch his legs. When he reached the school steps, he pulled off his shoes and poured out the water. There wasn’t a dry eye among his friends. Two-Ton knew the tears were not from sympathy. Other students gathered around, and one of the grade one students blurted, “Two-Ton wet his pants.” Another loud round of laughter engulfed Two-Ton’s misery.

The school bell rang. Two-Ton hurriedly slipped on his shoes for the trip to the classroom. A stream of water followed him up the stairs and down the hall. If he was going to have to endure all this laughter, he might as well provide everyone with a show. He got down on his haunches, crossed his arms, and did an imitation of a Cossack dance as only Two-Ton could. Guttural grunts came from his mouth, providing his Russian background music. The Morons joined in with clapping and singing, and for a moment Fiedelbaum thought it sounded like the Red Army Choir. Two-Ton could do three kicks before sprawling on the wet floor, but he happily saw each kick efficiently sprayed water into the crowd.

The janitor shuffled in with a mop and pail. “Thanks, Norman,” he said in a manner, which made guilt well up in Two-Ton.

“I’ll clean it up,” Two-Ton offered.

“Never mind,” the janitor retorted. “You’ll only make things worse. Look at you; you’re a soggy bag of mud and pond water. Do me a favor, go to your class, and stay in one spot.”

The crowd dispersed. When Two-Ton got to his desk, he removed his shoes, leaned them against the desk legs to let them drain. He sat in his seat, fidgeting, uncomfortable in his wet pants.

Classes started with the recitation of the Lord’s prayer and singing of the national anthem. Two-Ton rose for these school exercises and watched the water accumulate at his feet. He could only remember praying for dry clothes.

Math class was next on the agenda. The teacher provided an algebra problem on the blackboard and invited a class member to solve it.

Poobah quickly raised his hand. “Ask Two-Ton; he knows how to do it.”

Two-Ton glared at Poobah. Poobah smirked.

“Okay, Norman, Jefferson seems to have confidence you can solve this equation,” the teacher said, offering him a piece of chalk. As soon as Two-Ton got up in his dripping pants, the teacher knew he had been played, but by then it was too late. The class could not contain their laughter as they watched Two-Ton saunter up in his wet trousers, the dampness having now wicked up past his belt. As Two-Ton stood before the blackboard and began to solve the problem, he started to sway his hips for his appreciative audience.

“Norman, for a Mennonite who doesn’t dance, you seem to have quite a repertoire of moves,” the teacher noted. “Russian in the hall, and what’s this, Hawaiian?”

The laughter echoed in Two-Ton’s ears. He finished the problem and swished his way to his desk.

It took until after recess for his socks to leave no wet footprints on the floor. By noon, his blue jeans seemed to be only damp. By the afternoon recess, Two-Ton wore his shoes, hoping his feet could dry the interiors. He could hardly wait for his reward.

After school, the Morons trooped to Mr. Feyerabend’s confectionery. Two-Ton had to listen to countless retellings of the morning’s adventure. He put his friends’ laughter out of his mind and saw only visions of the chocolate-coated ice-cream treat he was close to eating.

Mr. Feyerabend outdid himself. The chocolate seemed extra thick, and the ice-cream incredibly smooth. Norman enjoyed every bite; the ice-cream and chocolate soon framed his mouth.

Spring had arrived. For the Morons, it was the time to marvel at the reawakening of creation. They were particularly grateful for the rebirth provided by the spring run-off, which each year filled Hinz’s Slough on the outskirts of town. The slough was surrounded with willows at the edge and transitioned to poplars further back and was large enough to attract a variety of waterfowl and songbirds. Rafting on Hinz Slough occupied hours of the boys’ time. First, you had to construct a raft out of fallen deadwood, which surrounded the slough. Using a few nails and some rope, it didn’t take long to create a sailable craft. The boys could sit silently for hours on the apple box with which they had equipped their raft and listen to the orchestra of the frogs, the quacking of the ducks, and the returning songs of the migratory warblers. Their spines would chill at the trilling song of the Western meadowlark on the nearby fencepost. They could watch the ripples created by the ducks and muskrats as they swam across the slough. Riding the raft was healing, renewing, and better than playing softball.

When Fiedelbaum and Horse would sing in harmony from their raft in the slough’s amphitheater, everything became magical for Poobah. At first, the frogs and the birds stopped their singing, but as Horse and Fiedelbaum continued, nature’s orchestra started up again and became the background magic for the duo’s songs.

For Poobah, all of this was new. The closest he had come recently was sitting on the bench at Iroquois Lake and listening to the loon with his Mom. Living in the city, spending most of his time in a darkened bedroom wasn’t conducive to paying attention to local birds.

Poobah couldn’t tell the difference in the green heads of the mallard and shoveler ducks; he couldn’t distinguish between the blue-winged, green-winged and cinnamon teals; he hadn’t admired the elegance of the pin-tailed duck; hadn’t laughed at the clownish coots or watched the amazing mating rituals of the grebes. When viewing the red-winged blackbirds, Poobah never realized the redwings arrived first, only to be chased away from their better nesting sites by the yellow-headed blackbirds who came later.

Spring brought renewed life to Poobah’s friends. For Poobah, it was contagious. He queried his friends, “Do you hear the sound? What’s the bird which sounds a bit like a robin?”

“It’s a Baltimore Oriole who nests in a sack he created at the top of the balsam poplar.”

“What was the bird which dive-bombed me yesterday when I went near its nest?”

“It was a brown thrasher,” laughed Honey.

Spring was a time for rafting. Poobah sat on one of the apple crates while Fiedelbaum did the poling. “What do you think, Fiedelbaum?” Poobah asked as he watched a pair of Western Grebes run across the slough as part of their mating dance. “Do you think Jesus walked on water as the grebes do with their feet thrashing and their heads straight up?”

“Of course not,” Fiedelbaum replied. “He walked on water like he would on land. You can’t downgrade a miracle. To say he walked on water like a grebe is a heresy.”

“I’m thinking outside the Book,” Poobah said, turning to Fiedelbaum. Frustrated with Poobah’s challenge to his faith, Fiedelbaum gave the pole an extra shove. The pole stuck in the mud and slowly removed Fiedelbaum from the raft.

Poobah stood up and saluted Fiedelbaum as gravity slowly lowered the pole to the water. “It’s a good thing the ship doesn’t go down with the captain,” Poobah said. He tried his best to imitate blowing a bugle doing the ‘Last Post.’ “Do you want me to sing ‘Nearer My God to Thee’?” Poobah asked. “The orchestra played the hymn when the Titanic went down; only the raft isn’t going down.”

“I can’t swim,” Fiedelbaum shouted.

“Then walk on water,” Poobah mocked. “if not like Jesus, then like a grebe. Try walking like Peter. According to the Bible, he was able to walk on water for a short while, perhaps far enough to get you to the raft.”

“You imbecile,” Fiedelbaum said. “I’m not joking. I can’t swim.”

“I can’t either,” Poobah said, realizing the seriousness of the problem. “When you fell off the raft, you pushed it farther away. Hang onto the pole. I’ll see if I can maneuver the raft to you.” Quickly he took off his rubber boots and lowered himself into the cold water at the other end of the raft. Thrashing his feet like a Western grebe, Poobah slowly propelled the craft towards Fiedelbaum.

When the raft reached Fiedelbaum, Poobah ran across the raft to help the captain back on board. “Thanks,” Fiedelbaum said, “but you’re still an imbecile.”

“I’ll look it up in the dictionary and get back to you,” laughed Poobah.

Together they pulled the pole out of the water, docked the raft, and returned home to the warmth of dry clothes.

The next day attracted virtually the entire Morons’ Club to raft in the sea they called Hinz’s Slough. Bringing the whole group together was always suitable for dares. It was Honey’s dare which had fellow Morons climbing a young poplar rooted in the water of the slough, getting it to bend enough so they could touch the water without falling in. Success meant a free revel contributed by club members.

“I’ll go first to demonstrate,” Honey said. The crew watched as Honey’s raft glided to a young sapling. Leaving the raft, he climbed to the top of the small tree until it bent to the water. Holding on with one hand and his two legs, he reached down with his free hand and made a small circle in the water with his hand sending small ripples to the shore. “You owe me,” said Honey as he stepped back onto the raft.

Poobah ventured next. Choosing another sapling, he climbed to the top. The tree proved to be sturdier than Honey’s. Although it bent some, Poobah couldn’t reach the water with his spare hand. “You’re only three inches away,” the boys encouraged. “If you let go with your other hand, you’ll be able to touch the water. No problem.”

“The revel sounds good fellas,” Poobah said as he shook the tree, hoping for more flexibility from its trunk. The tree stood firm. As a last resort, he released his other hand. His head flew back, and both hands splashed into the water. “Ooo, I love chocolate,” Poobah said triumphantly.

Poobah hadn’t counted on having to get his hands back on the tree to do a dismount onto the raft. He didn’t want to do a face plant on the raft. Poobah tried several times to raise his body to grasp the trunk of the tree. Seeing Poobah’s difficulty in raising himself to the tree trunk, Fiedelbaum made an announcement, “You have to land on the raft with your feet, not your head, arms or back, if you want a revel.” The club members quickly voted in favor of this rule.

“You can’t change the rules in the middle of the game,” Poobah shouted. “It’s not fair. You are a bunch of thieves, depriving me of my revel.”

Poobah knew his exercise regime of sitting in bed with his cell phone had not strengthened his core. Grunts and groans weren’t helpful. Finally, giving up, Poobah pleaded with his so-called friends to help him down. Instead, his friends moved their rafts to clear a space under the tree for him to land.

“I checked the dictionary, Fiedelbaum. You’re all imbeciles.” Resigned to his fate, Poobah released his legs and splashed into the slough. The sound silenced the pond and induced laughter on the rafts. His friends fished Poobah out of the water. How he wished he had brought a towel. Somehow the hot air released by the boys’ laughter wasn’t enough to dry him off.

Everyone waited for Two-Ton’s turn. It was a guaranteed laugh. Two-Ton knew he wouldn’t be able to complete the task without disastrous results. He was prepared to be the laughing stock yet again and unworthy of a revel. His friends considered him among the best Morons, because of his willingness to be a good sport and laugh at himself.

Two-Ton chose his tree carefully. It had to be strong but flexible enough to lower him to the water. “You should give a revel to the one who creates the biggest splash,” Two-Ton said as he began his climb. “Be prepared to be washed off your rafts by a tsunami.” The Morons responded by moving the rafts back.

The chubby boy climbed until he sensed the tree bending to his weight. His back was to the water, Two-Ton suddenly felt the tree snap and straighten up. An unbroken strip of bark guided the branch and the boy back to the trunk, which he hit with a thud. Then slowly and silently, he slid into the water.

“He gets high marks for the quiet entry,” Poobah laughed.

“What a blunt imitation of a woodpecker,” Honey said.

Fiedelbaum added, “Two-Ton, this is not how you make a lobstick! There are so many things wrong with this attempt. You removed the wrong end, used the wrong tree species, and there’s no visibility. You can’t see it as a sentinel for miles. You would be lucky to see it from the other end of Hinz’s slough.”

Red Dawg soon realized Two-Ton hadn’t moved since he hit the water. “Two-Ton isn’t moving. We got to get him out.” Two-Ton lay face-down in the cold water.

Honey, Wrench, and Horse jumped into the waist-deep pond and carried Two-Ton back to a raft. There, they applied several ‘thumps’ to his back. Two-Ton coughed, water running from his mouth.

“More high marks for mimicking drowning,” Red Dawg said.

Amid a fit of coughing, Two-Ton smiled as he sat up and said, “Drowning is never worth a revel. It only gets a laugh. On the other hand, there should be a Near-Death revel awarded. I mean, my whole world became as black as chocolate. I felt like I was the ice-cream dipped into the darkness of chocolate sauce.” The Morons laughed and continued their laughter until everyone had once again elaborated on Two-Ton’s descent into the drink. “But what about the Near-Death Revel Award? Aren’t any of you listening?” Two-Ton continued.

“I’ll get you a revel,” said Poobah, “but it will be a Misery-Loves-Company Revel. I’m soaked and cold and want to go home.” It was time to go home and get a dry set of clothes. There would be more dares tomorrow, many more revels to be won and lost.

Spring was the happiest of times, the beginnings of new dreams. For a Moron, the year always began in spring, not on an artificial date like January 1st.

The season also marked the start of the boys’ yearly fundraising effort. Gopher hunting! The gophers produced enough young each spring to provide pocket money for three seasons. Winter’s hibernation was the only thing that stopped the harvest.

“When are we going to go hunting, gophers?” asked Poobah. “I could use some cash.” For Poobah, the word ‘hunting’ had an exotic ring to it, for it reminded him of a live version of a video game or a television special on big game hunting.

It was Honey and Horse who offered to take on the task of teaching Poobah the fine art of gopher hunting.

The rural municipality encouraged the practice of eradicating the pests. The gophers denned in the pastures, leaving mounds and holes for farm animals to injure themselves. The municipality wasn’t interested in the carcass, only the tails as proof the animal was dead. For each tail, the bounty was five cents. The boys found it required only a small tug on the tail to slip it off its thin bone.

The boys weren’t scientific enough to realize they were chasing ground squirrels, not gophers. There were three different species hunted, the Richardson, the thirteen-lined, and the grey-mantled ground squirrel. Their tails all fetched the same price. For the boys, this was a financial transaction only and not a lesson in biological diversity.

One could achieve the demise of the “gopher” in a variety of ways. You could shoot them with an air rifle or a 22-caliber rifle. The “gophers” could be snared with twine, trapped with a gopher trap, or drowned out of their dens and beat with a stick as they raced to another hole nearby.

Parents, including Honey’s and Horse’s, had discouraged the use of rifles in the quest for gopher tails since the tragic death of a Waldheim youth. Poobah had assumed they’d use a gun to exterminate the gophers. Poobah had a quick finger on the trigger of his violent video games, and he was hoping to get to test it on a real gun. When Honey and Horse brought out pails and twine, Poobah was disappointed. “Where are the guns?” he asked.

“Our parents won’t allow us to carry them,” Horse answered.

“My Dad says the guns are too dangerous,” Honey said. “He thinks we could end up shooting farm animals or each other. I think we know the difference between a cow and a gopher. Parents think we are stupid.”

“In fairness to them, they got spooked by the hunting accident before the war,” Horse said.

“Parents’ long memories have a way of spoiling today’s fun,” Honey said.

“What happened?” Poobah asked.

“Two guys were hunting gophers, east of town sharing a 22 rifle,” Horse began. “A rifle is far too powerful for gopher hunting. Well anyway, they weren’t good shots, ending up missing and wasting bullets.”

“They began to tease each other,” continued Honey. “One started jumping up and down, shouting, ‘You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn door.’ They were the last words he ever spoke. The gun went off, and the guy dropped to the ground, dead.”

“The poor shooter had to go to town to get help,” Horse went on. “A bunch of men came with a truck, loaded his body into the box, and hauled him to town to his parents. It traumatized the whole town.”

“What happened to the shooter? Did he go to jail?” asked Poobah.

“No,” Honey replied. “It was an accident. The guy killed his best friend. It was punishment enough. Imagine the nightmares he must have had. I wouldn’t want to be him. He was a good person who was kind to us younger guys, someone who played catch with me. He fought in the war and survived.”

Honey and Horse had come to pick Poobah up on their bicycles with their arsenal of snares and pails. Poobah borrowed a bike from Two-Ton. “So, Horse, how many tails do you think we can get today?” asked Poobah.

“I think we can get twenty to thirty tails each,” Horse replied, “Now wouldn’t it be sweet, Honey? A dollar each.”

“Stop with all the sweet jokes already.” Honey was annoyed when they made jokes with his nickname, which ensured it happened more often.

A couple of miles out of town, an ideal pasture full of gophers awaited them. As the gophers foraged on the nearby crops and created hazards for cattle and horses, the farmers welcomed gopher hunters. However, due to the size of the litters, the school-aged trophy hunters never seemed to make a dent on the population. The boys cycled to the site, arriving mid-morning, and propped their bicycles against the barbed wire fence. The pasture bordered a slough from which they could draw water. They wore rubber boots for the occasion.

The boys crawled between the barbed wires, making their way into the field. The nearest ground squirrels stood on their hind legs on their mounds squeaking warnings, which brought others to their hole entrances to join the vigil. As the boys came near, the gophers scurried to their burrow and peered at the threat with only their head peering above the ground surface.

“Let’s start snaring here and work our way across the field,” Glen said. The two experienced hunters chose a hole into which they saw a gopher disappear. Poobah watched as they tied their twine into an expandable loop, which they placed around the hole. The boys then lay down several feet from the hole, held onto the end of the string, and waited for the ground squirrel to poke up his head to check its surroundings.

It never took long before the ground squirrel raised its head. He looked right at the boy at the end of the twine. The boy waited for the rodent to go further into the snare. Then, with a quick pull of the cord, the gopher was on a leash.

“I got one,” yelled Honey keeping the snare tight. He drew the cord towards him and dispatched the gopher with a blow from a stick. Honey loosened the string from the gopher’s neck, then placed his fingers at the base of the tail and with one quick motion, removed it. He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and inserted the tail, then rebuttoned it again to keep it safe.

It seemed simple enough, so Poobah tried his luck. He placed the noose around the den opening and then lay down, waiting for the gullible rodent to check if the coast was clear. The Richardson ground squirrel soon peered over the mound; its brown eyes glistened in the morning light. The video screen had immunized Poobah’s experience with hunting. The villain eradicated was always a cruel monster disappearing in a puff of smoke. Never was it a living creature with its bright shining eyes looking at you, a creature whose life you held in your hand.

“Now!” whispered Horse. “Pull it now!”

Poobah hesitated.

“Now,” Horse repeated.

Poobah yanked the twine; the ground squirrel squealed as the cord tightened around its neck. The rodent didn’t survive the blow from Horse’s stick. Horse picked up the carcass, slid the tail off the bone, and stuffed it in Poobah’s shirt pocket.

“Five cents,” Horse said. “If you catch a large gopher, you can split the tail in two, and you get ten.”

Poobah was still numb over the suddenness and the brutality of it all but still managed a sarcastic comment. “What was the topic of the church sermon this week? Honesty? Love for God’s creation?”

“The sermon was on counting our blessings,” Horse laughed. “Your pocket contains five blessings.”

The boys moved from hole to hole, leaving the bodies of the dead behind them for birds, foxes, and maggots. Poobah soon got used to the carnage and ignored the trusting eyes of his prey. After several hours of snaring, Eldred, and Horse changed strategies. The three dipped their pails into the slough, filling them with water. They then hauled the water to another ground squirrel’s den. Drowning gophers was less successful than snares, but it provided a change of pace. Horse took a stick and waited for a drenched animal to make a run for it. Honey poured the contents of each container into the hole. When the hole filled with water, any ground squirrel inside attempted its escape. As the burrow had several entrances, the boys never knew from which entrance the gophers would escape. Horse waited to pounce if the squirrel came up from the hole where they poured the water. He had to be quick, as the soggy rodents raced for the safety of another hole. Often the gophers could elude the stick wielders, and the whole process would begin again. Poobah was the ‘drawer of water,’ keeping the pails filled. He was tired of the tail chasing and the slaughter which went with it. With each success, they removed the tails and placed them in the shirt pockets with the others.

They reached the rural municipality office shortly before closing. The three hunters emptied their pockets, placing their prizes on the counter. The administrator dutifully counted them. The boys had reached their goal. Sixty gophers had lost their lives in the farmer’s pasture, and a precious dollar jingled in each of the boys’ pockets. Somehow the sight of sixty carcasses with bony tails exposed appeared before Poobah every time he closed his eyes. The three stopped at the confectionery for a cold Orange Crush.

With cash in short supply, Poobah gradually became numb to gopher eradication, and the glistening gopher eye no longer gave him pause. The weekly trips to the pasture usually brought another dollar to his pants pocket. With pop and revels costing only ten cents each, and Two-Ton’s mother’s great cooking and cookie-baking, Poobah survived.

As the boys continued their quest for spring riches, their intensity waned. They were easily distracted.

On one such occasion, the gopher hunting was near a farmyard. A hog enclosure bordered the pasture. Honey noticed the electric wire around the fence to ensure the hogs didn’t escape.

“I dare you to hold the electric wire for two pulses of electricity,” Honey said, “but you have to hold the wire while standing in the puddle at the corner of the pen. The reward is the usual revel.”

Horse and Poobah took on the challenge. “You’re on,” they said.

“Mr. Feyerabend promised to give me the revel with the thickest chocolate,” Poobah said. “It’s because I do all my revel shopping at his confectionery.”

“Nobody else in town makes revels,” Honey said. “We are all loyal customers. I don’t think you get any special deals.”

“I’ll go first,” Horse said. “I’ll show you prairie tough.”

“Take your gloves off,” Honey said. “No wimping out.”

Horse dropped his gloves at the edge of the puddle and waded to the fence. Turning to Poobah and Honey, he flexed his arm muscles. “Adventist prairie tough,” he said. Without hesitation, he turned and grabbed the wire with both hands. Poobah and Honey watched as Horse convulsed twice as the electric current went through his body. “Aaah,” Horse said as he raised his hands above his head. “It was awful. I’m not doing it again. But the revel will make me forget. Your turn, Poobah. Let’s make Honey destitute.”

Seeing Horse convulse, made Poobah unsure he wanted to try. “Why don’t you do it, Honey?” Poobah asked.

“I’m the financier of this project,” Honey replied. “The common people do the hands-on work.”

Poobah dropped his gloves and made his way into the puddle. His feet were wet, as water had crept over the top of his boots when he was fetching water for the gopher hunt. Slowly he sloshed his way to the fence and the revel promise. He reached down for the electric wire. As he grabbed the wire, the first pulse froze him. Poobah felt the surge of electricity from his head to his toes. Poobah wanted to release his hands, but his hands did not respond, keeping their tight hold on the wire. The second pulse shook his entire body. Poobah’s hands would not answer his brain’s plea to let go. A third pulse released a loud groan from his chest. Horse and Honey began to laugh. By the fourth surge, Horse realized his friend was in trouble. He splashed his way to Poobah, and with one motion, pulled him from the wire and tossed him to the puddle’s edge where he landed in a pile of mud.

Mud stuck to every bit of clothing and rubber boot. Staggering to his feet, Poobah gave Honey an angry shove, smearing the sticky mud on Honey’s shirt. “You’re mean and sadistic,” Poobah said.

“Well, you earned the revel,” Honey said, laughing. “You had to work harder at the dare than Horse. It’s because you asked for extra chocolate. God works in mysterious ways.”

Horse joined in the laughter. “You appeared like you were enjoying the electric shock treatment so much, you didn’t want to let go. I had to save you from yourself.”

“Thanks,” Poobah said to Horse. Turning to Honey, he said, “but I’m still mad at you.” Poobah gave Honey another shove.

“Don’t worry,” Honey said, “I’m good for the revels. However, it was worth it watching you shake on the line.” Honey grimaced and imitated the convulsions Poobah made on the fence. Eventually, the contagious laughter broke through, and Poobah joined in.

“You got me good,” he said.