Free 97 Ways to Train a Dragon by Kate McMullan Page B

opened one eye. He squinted at Erica’s glow-in-the-dark hourglass perched on the ledge. Quarter to IV.
    â€œAngus?” Wiglaf said. “Are you awake?”
    â€œNo,” Angus groaned. “I’m sound asleep having a horrible nightmare that I’m out in the freezing cold picking up trash!”
    Wiglaf stayed under his blanket as he pulled on his tunic. Once Angus was dressed, his pockets filled with snacks, the boys tiptoed out of the DSA castle. By the gate house, they found a stack of burlap bags. They picked them up, pushed open the big wooden DSA gates, and walked over the creaky drawbridge into the moonlit night.
    Wiglaf took a breath of night air. “Ugh!” he said, nearly choking. “What reeks?”
    â€œFrypot must have thrown out more leftovers,” said Angus.
    Frypot, the DSA cook, served leftovers night after night. Only when a Fried Eel Casserole or Jellied Eel Surprise began to turn green and foam around the edges did he finally toss it out the kitchen window onto his garbage heap.
    The boys walked quickly to escape the ghastly smell. On and on they trudged. The sky was turning pink by the time they reached the Swamp River. It was light enough for Wiglaf to see that the riverbank was littered with candle stubs, old boots, rusted armor parts, chicken bones, and too many empty mead bottles to count.
    â€œI need a rest,” said Angus.
    â€œWe haven’t even started yet,” said Wiglaf.
    Angus sat on a rock and closed his eyes.
    Wiglaf grabbed a bag. He began walking and tossing in trash. Soon his bag was bulging.
    â€œOne bag filled,” Wiglaf reported to Angus.
    â€œGood work!” said Angus.
    Wiglaf sighed and started off in the other direction. Then, without warning, he skidded on something slippery. His feet slid out from under him, and he fell off a small ledge. Plop! He landed on something soft. Slowly, he sat up. He shook his head. He wasn’t hurt. But he was sitting in a puddle of nasty green slime!
    â€œAngus!” Wiglaf called. “Help!”
    Angus lumbered over. He peered down at Wiglaf.
    â€œGet me out of here, Angus,” said Wiglaf. He held up a slimy green hand.
    Angus drew back. “Ooh, yuck!” Then he frowned. “Wiggie, you’re sitting in a nest.”
    â€œI am?” Wiglaf looked around. Yes. He was in a nest—a nest with bits of eggshells in it. Pink and purple eggshells. He remembered what Dr. Pluck had said. Dragon eggs were pink or purple. And newly hatched piplings were covered in green slime. Wiglaf’s eyes widened. “I think I am sitting on a dragon’s nest, Angus. And look! There’s an unhatched dragon egg!”
    Angus jumped down into the pit. He and Wiglaf bent over the deep purple egg. It was the size of a small pumpkin.
    â€œA dragon egg.” Angus stared at it. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Wiggie?”
    â€œYes!” said Wiglaf.
    Angus grinned. “Scrambled dragon egg!”
    â€œNo!” cried Wiglaf. “That’s not what I’m thinking! Angus, the egg—it’s warm! This egg could still hatch—into a little pipling!”
    â€œI bet it’s a dud,” said Angus. “Or it would have hatched with the others. Anyway, you heard what Dr. Pluck said. Dragon piplings are really nasty.”

    â€œHe said mama dragons teach their piplings to peck and pinch and punch,” Wiglaf said. “Maybe they’re born nice. We could find out. Let’s take the egg back.”
    â€œYou’ve lost your mind,” said Angus.
    â€œWe can’t leave it here to hatch,” said Wiglaf. “It’s all alone. And think of it, Angus. We could raise a little pet pipling! Come on, Angus. Don’t you like animals?”
    â€œI love animals!” said Angus. “But animals don’t like me.”
    â€œHow can you say that?” asked Wiglaf.
    â€œâ€˜Tis true,” said Angus. “Your pet