The New Kid at School Read Online Free Page A

Sir Mort cried in a muffled voice.
    Eric and two other boys gripped their teacher under the arms and pulled him up.
    “Ah, that’s better.” Sir Mort pushed his visor back up. “Slippery devils, these boots. Reminds me of the time I stalked the dragon Fiffnir. Have I shown you the wound Fiffnir gave me? Nasty wound it is, too.”

    Sir Mort bent down. He began struggling to pull off the left boot of his armor.
    In the distance a bell rang.
    Angus spoke up. “Sir Mort, class is over.”
    “Devilish tight, this boot,” Sir Mort grumbled.
    “Sir, we must go to Slaying Class now,” Angus continued. “Coach Plungett gets vexed if we are late.”
    “Go then, lads. Go!” Sir Mort said. “My wound will wait. Got it the year of the grasshopper plague. No, the year before. Couldn’t have walked to Constantinople. Not with this wound. No, it must have been...”
    Quietly, Wiglaf followed Angus and Eric and the other future dragon slayers down the spiral staircase. He was amazed at how much he had learned of dragon stalking in one short morning!

    “Step it up, lads!” Coach Plungett called as Class I ran out into the castle yard. The large man’s long brown pageboy-style hair blew gently in the breeze. “Ten laps around the castle,” he ordered. “Can’t kill a dragon if you’re not in shape!”
    By lap three, Eric was way ahead of the others. Wiglaf was way behind. He began to worry that slopping pigs and washing dishes had not prepared him well for dragon slaying.
    But after the laps, the coach ordered the boys to take a deep breath and hold it for the count of fifty.
    “If a dragon spews out poison,” he told them, “the longer you can hold your breath, the better. Ready? And! One...two...three....”
    Wiglaf smiled as he held his breath. Living in the smelly hovel with his unwashed family had given him plenty of practice at this skill! He alone made it to the count of fifty.
    “Good work!” Coach Plungett told him. “Now before we start slaying, why don’t you give the DSA cheer for our new boy? Belt it out now, boys!”
    At once, the whole class began shouting at the top of their lungs:
    “Rooty-toot-ho! Rooty-toot-hey!
We are the boys from DSA!
We slay dragons, yes we do!
Big ones! Bony ones! Fat ones, too!
We slay dragons, young and old!
We slay dragons, grab their gold!
Yea! Yea! For good old DSA-Hey!”
    “Hey!” Coach clapped at the end of the cheer. “All right now, line up in front of Old Blodgett. Quickly, lads. Go on!”
    Wiglaf and the others lined up in front of a large dragon. It wasn’t a real dragon, of course. Old Blodgett was only a wooden one covered with cloth and stuffed with straw.
    “Slaying is the most important class here at DSA,” Coach told the boys. “You can find a dragon. You can stalk a dragon. But if you cannot slay a dragon, you cannot get a hoard.
    “Today we shall practice Slaying Method Number Seven, the Throat Thrust. Aim here.” Coach Plungett pointed the tip of his sword just under Old Blodgett’s chin where a target had been painted. “Not many scales in that spot. Watch me now!”
    Coach Plungett faced the false dragon. He drew his weapon, galloped a few steps, and with a toss of his brown pageboy, thrust his sword deep into the dragon’s neck.
    Wiglaf cringed. He knew that no blood would spill from this dragon. Still his stomach did flip-flops.
    Wiglaf watched with growing dread as each boy took a turn stabbing the practice dragon. When his turn came, he drew Surekill, galloped toward the dragon, and stopped.
    “Go on, boy!” Coach Plungett urged him.
    Wiglaf backed up. He gripped Surekill more tightly. He stared at the target on the dragon’s throat. He galloped forward again ...and stopped.
    “Blazing King Ken’s britches!” Coach cried. “Aim here!” He pointed at the target.
    Wiglaf backed up once more. He swallowed. If he could not plunge his sword into this dummy dragon, what hope did he have of ever slaying a real one? Wiglaf took