The boy picked up the knife and was about to cut into the cake when he stopped. He stared at the cake. Then he looked up at the Trunchbull, then at the tall stringy cook with her lemon-juice mouth. All the children in the hall were watching tensely, waiting for something to happen. They felt certain it must. The Trunchbull was not a person who would give someone a whole chocolate cake to eat just out of kindness. Many were guessing that it had been filled with pepper or castor-oil or some other foul-tasting substance that would make the boy violently sick. It might even be arsenic and he would be dead in ten seconds flat. Or perhaps it was a booby-trapped cake and the whole thing would blow up the moment it was cut, taking Bruce Bogtrotter with it. No one in the school put it past the Trunchbull to do any of these things.
'I don't want to eat it,' the boy said.
'Taste it, you little brat,' the Trunchbull said. 'You're insulting the cook.'
Very gingerly the boy began to cut a thin slice of the vast cake. Then he levered the slice out. Then he put down the knife and took the sticky thing in his fingers and started very slowly to eat it.
'It's good, isn't it?' the Trunchbull asked.
'Very good,' the boy said, chewing and swallowing. He finished the slice.
'Have another,' the Trunchbull said.
'That's enough, thank you,' the boy murmured.
'I said have another,' the Trunchbull said, and now there was an altogether sharper edge to her voice. 'Eat another slice! Do as you are told!'
'I don't want another slice,' the boy said.
Suddenly the Trunchbull exploded. 'Eat!' she shouted, banging her thigh with the riding-crop. 'If I tell you to eat,
you will eat! You wanted cake! You stole cake! And now you've got cake! What's more, you're going to eat it! You do not leave this platform and nobody leaves this hall until you have eaten the entire cake that is sitting there in front of you! Do I make myself clear, Bogtrotter? Do you get my meaning?'
The boy looked at the Trunchbull. Then he looked down at the enormous cake.
'Eat! Eat! Eat!' the Trunchbull was yelling.
Very slowly the boy cut himself another slice and began to eat it.
Matilda was fascinated. 'Do you think he can do it?' she whispered to Lavender.
'No,' Lavender whispered back. 'It's impossible. He'd be sick before he was halfway through.'
The boy kept going. When he had finished the second slice, he looked at the Trunchbull, hesitating.
'Eat!' she shouted. 'Greedy little thieves who like to eat cake must have cake! Eat faster boy! Eat faster! We don't want to be here all day! And don't stop like you're doing now! Next time you stop before it's all finished you'll go straight into The Chokey and I shall lock the door and throw the key down the well!'
The boy cut a third slice and started to eat it. He finished this one quicker than the other two and when that was done he immediately picked up the knife and cut the next slice. In some peculiar way he seemed to be getting into his stride.
Matilda, watching closely, saw no signs of distress in the boy yet. If anything, he seemed to be gathering confidence as he went along. 'He's doing well,' she whispered to Lavender.
'He'll be sick soon,' Lavender whispered back. 'It's going to be horrid.'
When Bruce Bogtrotter had eaten his way through half of the entire enormous cake, he paused for just a couple of seconds and took several deep breaths.
The Trunchbull stood with hands on hips, glaring at him. 'Get on with it!' she shouted. 'Eat it up!'
Suddenly the boy let out a gigantic belch which rolled around the Assembly Hall like thunder. Many of the audience began to giggle.
'Silence!' shouted the Trunchbull.
The boy cut himself another thick slice and started eating it fast. There were still no signs of flagging or giving up. He certainly did not look as though he was about to stop and cry out, 'I can't, I can't eat any more! I'm going to be sick!' He was still in the running.
And now a subtle change was coming over the two hundred and fifty watching children in the audience. Earlier on, they had sensed impending disaster. They had prepared themselves for an unpleasant scene in which the wretched boy, stuffed to the gills with chocolate cake, would have to surrender and beg for mercy and then they would have watched the triumphant Trunchbull forcing more and still more cake into the mouth of the gasping boy.
Not a bit of it. Bruce Bogtrotter was three-quarters of the way through and still going strong. One sensed that he was almost beginning to enjoy himself. He had a mountain to climb and he was jolly well going to reach the top or die in the attempt. What is more, he had now become very conscious of his audience and of how they were all silently rooting for him. This was nothing less than a battle between him and the mighty Trunchbull.
Suddenly someone shouted, 'Come on, Brucie! You can make it!'