The New Kid at School Read Free Page B

new dishwasher—er, I mean student.”
    Then Frypot lit the way through the gatehouse, across the castle yard, and up a stone stairway into the crumbling castle.
    Just inside the door, Frypot stuck his torch into a holder on the wall. Then he sat down at a desk and opened a thick book.
    “Full name?” he asked.
    “Wiglaf of Pinwick.”
    “Age?”
    “This shall be my twelfth summer.”
    “Skills?”
    “Washing dishes,” began Wiglaf, “slopping pigs, raking dung—”
    “I meant any skills that might be useful in dragon slaying,” Frypot said.
    Wiglaf thought for a moment. “Nothing comes to mind,” he answered.
    “Class I, then.” Frypot shut the book. He opened a cupboard and took out a blue tunic and a helmet. White letters on the tunic spelled out DSA. He gave them to Wiglaf. “Your uniform,” he said.
    “The kitchen’s that way,” Frypot added, handing Wiglaf the torch. “You can start on the dishes while I settle your pig.”
    Then the cook led Daisy toward the door. “Ome-cay, iggy-pay,” he said, “and tell me how you came by your enchantment. I never cook bacon, you know. Well, hardly ever....”

    “What a poor sword!” Wiglaf heard someone exclaim.
    He half-opened one eye. He had not had much sleep. Frypot had not told him how very, very many dirty dishes there would be.
    Now Wiglaf saw two boys in DSA tunics standing at the foot of his cot. One was sandy haired and plump. The other had straight brown hair and a serious face. He was holding Surekill.
    “Have you ever drawn this sword in battle?” the boy asked.
    “No,” Wiglaf answered.
    “Have you sliced off anyone’s head with it?”
    “Of course not!” Wiglaf exclaimed.
    “And I’ll wager you have never killed a dragon with it, either.”
    “No,” Wiglaf admitted. “But the sword is called Surekill,” he added. “So perhaps I shall. I am called Wiglaf.”
    “I am Eric.” The boy tossed Surekill back onto Wiglaf’s cot. “I sleep there.” He pointed to the far side of the room.
    Wiglaf turned to see one of many lumpy cots just like his own. On the wall above it hung a certificate which read: SIR LANCELOT FAN CLUB. Next to that hung a tapestry. It showed a knight plunging a sword into a dragon. Blood gushed from the dragon’s side. Yuck! thought Wiglaf.
    “I have not yet killed a dragon,” Eric was saying. “But soon I shall. Not for the gold, but to rid the world of evil! I want—”
    “Pray, save it, Eric,” the plump boy cut in. “Or we shall miss breakfast.” He turned to Wiglaf, adding, “Don’t worry. We are not all so eager as Eric.”
    Wiglaf put on his DSA tunic and helmet, and followed his roommates to a huge dining hall.
    Boys of all sizes sat at long wooden tables labeled “Class I,” “Class II,” and “Class III.” A big boy was tossing slices of burnt toast through the air. Other boys punched and poked and pinched each other for the honor of catching them.
    The sight made Wiglaf feel a little home-sick.
    Wiglaf got in line and picked up his tray.
    “What’s for breakfast?” he asked Eric.
    “Fried eel on toast,” Eric replied as he took a heaping plateful.
    “ Eel ?” Wiglaf cried.
    Eric nodded. “Mordred says eating eel is part of our training,” he explained. “Dragon hunters must learn to live on what can be found near a dragon’s lair.”
    The boys carried their trays to the Class I table. Then Wiglaf watched as Eric scooped up a spoonful of greasy eel and eagerly stuffed it into his mouth.
    “Ugh!” Wiglaf groaned. “How do dragon hunters do it?”
    The plump boy leaned over toward him. “They don‘t,” he whispered. “Eels live in the castle moat, so they do not cost Mordred a cent. That is the real reason we are served eel so often.”
    “How often?” Wiglaf asked in dismay.
    “Too often,” the boy replied. “By the way, I am Angus.”
    Wiglaf stared in awe. “Angus the Avenger?”
    “Oh, you saw the notice.” Angus smiled shyly. “Mordred only made me