William the Good by Richmal Crompton Read Free Book Online Page A

eyes when he saw that his name wasn’t on it at all. They hadn’t
even got his name down as the wind or the thunder or the horses’ hooves or anything. . . . If it hadn’t been for that sixpence he’d certainly have chucked up the whole thing. . .
.
    They’d got to the snow-storm scene now. The curtains were half drawn across and in the narrow aperture appeared Miss Gwladwyn, the heroine. It was a very complicated plot, but at this
stage of it she’d been turned out of her home by her cruel Roundhead father and was wandering in search of her lost Cavalier lover.
    She said, ‘How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me any pity?’ and turned her face up to the sky, and tiny snow-flakes began to fall upon her face. The tiny snow-flakes were tiny
bits of paper dropped down through a tiny opening in the ceiling by her well-mannered little nephew. He did it very nicely. William did not pay much attention to it. He was beginning to consider
the whole thing beneath his contempt.
    It was the evening of the performance. The performers were making frenzied preparations behind the scenes. Mr Fleuster was to draw the curtain, Miss Featherstone’s
sister was to prompt, and William was to hand out programmes. Mr Fleuster has not come into this story before, but he had been trying to propose to Miss Gwladwyn for the last five years and had not
yet been able to manage it. Both Miss Gwladwyn and Miss Gwladwyn’s friends had given him ample opportunities, but opportunities only seemed to make him yet more bashful. When he had not an
opportunity he longed to propose, and when an opportunity of proposing came he lost his head and didn’t do it. Miss Gwladwyn had done everything a really nice woman can do; that is to say,
she had done everything short of actually proposing herself. Her friends had arranged for him to draw the curtain in the hopes that it would bring matters to a head. Not that they really expected
that it would. It would, of course, be a good opportunity, and as such would fill him with terror and dismay.
    Mr Fleuster, large and perspiring, stood by the curtain, pretending not to see that Miss Gwladwyn was standing quite near him and that no one else was within earshot, and that it was an
excellent opportunity.
    William stood sphinx-like at the door distributing programmes. His cogitations had not been entirely profitless. He had devised means by which he hoped to vindicate his position as hero. For one
thing he had laboriously printed out four special programmes which he held concealed beneath the ordinary programmes, and which were to be distributed to Ginger, Douglas, Henry, and the actor, if
the actor should come. He had copied down the dramatis personæ from the ordinary programme, but at the end he had put an ‘and’ and then in gigantic letters:
Wind
Shots

William Brown.
Rain
And All
Thunder
Other Noises
Horses’ Hooves
    Seeing Ginger coming he hastily got one of his homemade programmes out and assuming his blankest expression handed it to him.
    ‘Good ole William,’ murmured Ginger as he took it.
    Then Henry came, and Henry also was given one.
    ‘Why aren’t you changin’ into your things?’ said Henry.
    ‘I don’t ackshully come on to the stage,’ admitted William. ‘I’m the most important person in the play as you’ll soon jolly well see, but I don’t ackshully come on to the stage.’
    He was glad to have got that confession off his chest.
    Then Douglas came. He handed the third of his privately printed programmes to Douglas with an air of impersonal officialism, as if he were too deeply occupied in his duties to be able to
recognise his friends.
    There was only one left. That was for the actor. If the actor came. William peered anxiously down the road. The room was full. It was time to begin.
    ‘William Brown!’ an exasperated voice hissed down the room. William swelled with importance. Everyone would know now that they couldn’t begin without him. He continued to gaze