In two strides the Trunchbull was beside him, and by some amazing gymnastic trick, it may have been judo or karate,
she flipped the back of Wilfred's legs with one of her feet so that the boy shot up off the ground and turned a somersault in the air.
But halfway through the somersault she caught him by an ankle and held him dangling upside-down like a plucked chicken in a shop-window.
“Eight threes,” the Trunchbull shouted, swinging Wilfred from side to side by his ankle,
“eight threes is the same as three eights and three eights are twenty-four! Repeat that!”
At exactly that moment Nigel, at the other end of the room, jumped to his feet
and started pointing excitedly at the blackboard and screaming, “The chalk! The chalk! Look at the chalk! It's moving all on its own!”
So hysterical and shrill was Nigel's scream that everyone in the place, including the Trunchbull, looked up at the blackboard.
And there, sure enough, a brand-new piece of chalk was hovering near the grey-black writing surface of the blackboard.
“It's writing something!” screamed Nigel. “The chalk is writing something!”
And indeed it was. “What the blazes is this?” yelled the Trunchbull.
It had shaken her to see her own first name being written like that by an invisible hand.
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