During lunch an announcement was made that the whole school should go into the Assembly Hall and be seated as soon as the meal was over.
When all the two hundred and fifty or so boys and girls were settled down in Assembly, the Trunchbull marched on to the platform.
None of the other teachers came in with her. She was carrying a riding-crop in her right hand.
She stood up there on centre stage in her green breeches with legs apart and riding-crop in hand, glaring at the sea of upturned faces before her.
“What's going to happen?” Lavender whispered. “I don't know,” Matilda whispered back. The whole school waited for what was coming next.
“Bruce Bogtrotter!” the Trunchbull barked suddenly. “Where is Bruce Bogtrotter?” A hand shot up among the seated children.
“Come up here!” the Trunchbull shouted. “And look smart about it!”
An eleven-year-old boy who was decidedly large and round stood up and waddled briskly forward.
He climbed up on to the platform. “Stand over there!” the Trunchbull ordered, pointing. The boy stood to one side. He looked nervous.
He knew very well he wasn't up there to be presented with a prize.
He was watching the Headmistress with an exceedingly wary eye,
and he kept edging farther and farther away from her with little shuffles of his feet,
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