Digger Field Read Online Free

oign figire.’ Simple. ‘Look at that kid, his fly is undone,’ becomes: ‘Loigok aigt thigat kigid, higis fligy iigs unigdone.’
    Pretty soon we sounded like we’d been talking Driggleish all our lives.
    Then Wrigs said, ‘Whigo iigs thigat duigude?’
    A man dressed in a black suit and black sunglasses and carrying a black briefcase strode down the pathway. He was talking quickly into a phone, which was also black.
    We couldn’t work out what he was saying but we could tell he was really angry. He was stomping around and whisper-shouting into the phone. Whisper-shouting is when you’re shouting but you don’t want anyone to hear you, so you whisper and shout at the same time. It’s really hard to do.
    The man hung up on whoever he was whisper-shouting at and put his phone in his pocket.
    He went to the doorway of the house, then carefully paced out six steps and put the briefcase down to mark the spot. He went back to the door, pulled out a tape measure from his other pocket and measured the width of the doorway. He then disappeared inside.
    ‘Whigat’s hige doiging?’ said Wriggler.
    ‘Mayigbe hige iigs aig buigilder,’ I said.
    ‘Hige looigks migore liigke aig gaigngster.’
    The man reappeared at the doorway. Wrigs was right. He did look like a gangster. He was about thirty, not very tall, but his dark hair was slicked down and he looked like he had been born with sunglasses on. He pressed the button on his tape measure and the tape got sucked back into its case.
    Then he saw us and just stopped. Dead still. He seemed furious that someone else was there. He just stared at us. Then his phone rang again and he answered it and started whisper-shouting, twice as quickly and twice as angrily as before. He turned around and disappeared up the path. He left the briefcase sitting there. In between us and the pathway. Between us and the only way out.
    ‘Whigat’s iign thige caigse?’ Wriggler was panicking.
    ‘Giguns?’
    ‘Moigney?’
    The black briefcase looked like something a businessman would carry around. It had huge gold locks and a padlock around the handle.
    ‘Mayigbe iigt’s aig bigomb.’
    ‘Aig bigomb?’
    ‘A bomb.’
    Wriggler looked at me for a moment, then bolted past the briefcase and up the path towards View Street. I waited exactly 1.27 milliseconds, then followed him.
    We sneaked back down to the river a couple of hours later but there was no sign of the man in the black suit or his briefcase. And no bomb crater.
    As me and Wrigs walked home, we tried to work out who the man could be. We had no idea what he wanted with our skimming spot, but we reckoned it wasn’t good news for us.
    Wrigs still thought he was a gangster looking for a hideout. I reckoned he was a real estate agent wanting to sell the property.
    Either way, he wouldn’t want us hanging around. It wasn’t looking good for the world record.

CHAPTER 8
DAY 7: Friday
    My skims: 0
    Wriggler’s skims: 0
    Days to becoming world champion: 32
    No training today: hottest day in history.
    Money made for tinnie: -$10 ($735 to go—again.)
    It was the hottest day in the history of the world, and we got in the most trouble in the history of the world, just for trying to stay out of the heat.
    My house is not that different from most of the other houses on our street. It’s an old fibro place with a big front yard. The backyard is tiny. All that fits in it are Mum’s little vegie patch and the chicken coop Dad built.
    Dad has six chickens that run around the backyard, pooing and squawking and getting in the way.
    Dad always says, ‘We don’t have much but we have as many eggs as we want.’ Which in my mind is exactly none. I hate eggs. I don’t like chickens either.
    The front yard is where everything happens. There’s a lawn that slopes down to the street. There are a few steps going up to the front door. There’s a front verandah and, on a hot day, it’s the coolest part of the house.
    Wrigs and I were sitting out