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

anxiously down the road. There he was at last.
    ‘William Brown !’
    The actor was almost at the door. He carried a parcel under his arm.
    ‘William Brown,’ said someone in the back row obligingly, ‘they want you.’
    ‘ William – Brown! ’ hissed Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s face, appearing frenzied and bodiless like the Cheshire cat between the curtains.
    The actor entered the hall. William thrust his one remaining programme into his hand.
    ‘Thought you were the hero,’ said the actor, gazing at him sardonically.
    William met his sardonic gaze unblinkingly.
    ‘So I am,’ he said promptly, ‘but the hero doesn’t always come on to the stage. Not in the newest sort of plays, anyway.’ He pointed to the
large-lettered part of the programme. ‘That’s me,’ he said modestly. ‘All of it’s me.’
    With this he hastened back behind the curtain, leaving the actor reading his programme at the end of the room.
    He was received with acrimony by a nerve-racked cast.
    ‘Keeping us all waiting all this time.’
    ‘Didn’t you hear us calling?’
    ‘It’s nearly twenty-five to.’
    ‘It’s all right,’ said William in a superior manner that maddened them still further. ‘You can begin now.’
    Miss Featherstone’s sister took her prompt-book, Mr Fleuster seized the curtain-strings, the cast entered the stage, William took his seat behind, and the play began.
    Now William’s plans for making himself the central figure of the play did not stop with the programmes. He considered that the noises he had been allowed to make at the rehearsals had been
pitifully inadequate, and he intended tonight to produce a storm more worthy of his powers. Who ever heard of the wind howling in a storm the way they’d made him howl all these weeks? He knew
what the wind howling in a storm sounded like and he’d jolly well make it sound like that. There was his cue. Someone was saying, ‘Hark how the storm rages. Canst hear the
wind?’
    At the ensuing sound the prompter dropped her book and the heroine lost her balance and brought down the property mantelpiece on to the top of her. William had put a finger into each corner of
his mouth in order to aid nature in the rendering of the storm. The sound was even more piercing than he had expected it to be. That , thought William, complacently noticing the havoc it
played with both audience and cast, was something like a wind. That would show ’em whether he was the hero of the play or not. With admirable presence of mind the cast pulled itself together
and continued. William’s next cue was the thunder.
    ‘List,’ said the heroine, ‘how the thunder rages in the valley.’
    The thunder raged and continued to rage. For some minutes the cast remained silent and motionless – except for facial contortions expressive of horror and despair – waiting for the
thunder to abate, but as it showed no signs of stopping they tried to proceed. It was, however, raging so violently that no one could hear a word, so they had to stop again.
    At last even its maker tired of it and it died away. The play proceeded. Behind the scenes William smiled again to himself. That had been a jolly good bit of thunder. He’d really
enjoyed that. And it would jolly well let them all know he was there even if he wasn’t dressed up and on the stage like the others. His next cue was the horses’ hooves, and William was
feeling a little nervous about that. The sound of horses’ hooves is made with a coconut, and though William had managed to take his coconut (purchased for him by Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce)
about with him all the time the play was in rehearsal, he had as recently as last night succumbed to temptation and eaten it. He didn’t quite know what to do about the horses’ hooves.
He hadn’t dared to tell anyone about it. But still he thought he’d be able to manage it. Here it was coming now.
    ‘Listen,’ Miss Gwladwyn was saying. ‘I hear the sound of horses’