who has sighted the finishing-line and knows he must keep going.
As the very last mouthful disappeared, a tremendous cheer rose up from the audience
and children were leaping on to their chairs and yelling and clapping and shouting, “Well done Brucie!
Good for you, Brucie! You've won a gold medal, Brucie!”
The Trunchbull stood motionless on the platform. Her great horsy face had turned the colour of molten lava and her eyes were glittering with fury.
She glared at Bruce Bogtrotter who was sitting on his chair like some huge overstuffed grub, replete, comatose, unable to move or to speak.
A fine sweat was beading his forehead but there was a grin of triumph on his face.
Suddenly the Trunchbull lunged forward and grabbed the large empty china platter on which the cake had rested.
She raised it high in the air and brought it down with a crash
right on the top of the wretched Bruce Bogtrotter's head and pieces flew all over the platform.
The boy was by now so full of cake he was like a sackful of wet cement and you couldn't have hurt him with a sledge-hammer.
He simply shook his head a few times and went on grinning.
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