Матильда
Bruce Bogtrotter and the Cake
"Can’tItakeithomeinstead?"heasked.
"Thatwouldbeimpolite,"theTrunchbullsaid,withacraftygrin."Youmustshowcookieherehowgratefulyouareforallthetroubleshe’staken."
Theboydidn’tmove.
"Goon,getonwithit,"theTrunchbullsaid."Cutasliceandtasteit.Wehaven’tgotallday."
Theboypickeduptheknifeandwasabouttocutintothecakewhenhestopped.Hestaredatthecake.ThenhelookedupattheTrunchbull,thenatthetallstringycookwithherlemon-juicemouth.Allthechildreninthehallwerewatchingtensely,waitingforsomethingtohappen.Theyfeltcertainitmust.TheTrunchbullwasnotapersonwhowouldgivesomeoneawholechocolatecaketoeatjustoutofkindness.Manywereguessingthatithadbeenfilledwithpepperorcastor-oilorsomeotherfoul-tastingsubstancethatwouldmaketheboyviolentlysick.Itmightevenbearsenicandhewouldbedeadintensecondsflat.Orperhapsitwasabooby-trappedcakeandthewholethingwouldblowupthemomentitwascut,takingBruceBogtrotterwithit.NooneintheschoolputitpasttheTrunchbulltodoanyofthesethings.
"Idon’twanttoeatit,"theboysaid.
"Tasteit,youlittlebrat,"theTrunchbullsaid."You’reinsultingthecook."
Verygingerlytheboybegantocutathinsliceofthevastcake.Thenheleveredthesliceout.Thenheputdowntheknifeandtookthestickythinginhisfingersandstartedveryslowlytoeatit.
"It’sgood,isn’tit?"theTrunchbullasked.
"Verygood,"theboysaid,chewingandswallowing.Hefinishedtheslice.
