The Great Gilly Hopkins Read Online Free PDF Page B

directly across from Gilly.
    â€œSay, W.E.”—Gilly flashed her teeth at him—“how about you and me doing a little red-hot reading after supper? You know, squeeze the old orange reader?”
    W.E. shook his head, his eyes pleading with Trotter to save him.
    â€œMy, oh, my, Mrs. Trotter. I can tell how old I am when I can’t even understand the language of the young people about me,” said Mr. Randolph.
    Trotter was looking first at W.E. and then at Gilly. “Don’t you fret yourself, Mr. Randolph.” She leaned across the corner of the table and patted William Ernest gently, keeping her eyes on Gilly. “Don’t you fret, now. Some times these kids’ll tease the buttons off a teddy bear. Ain’t nothing to do with age.”
    â€œHell, I was just trying to help the kid,” muttered Gilly.
    â€œHe don’t always know that,” Trotter said, but her eyes were saying “like heck you were.” “I got a real good idea,” she went on. “They tell me, Gilly, that you are some kind of a great reader yourself. I know Mr. Randolph would like to hear you read something.”
    The little wrinkled face brightened. “My, my! Would you do that, Miss Gilly? It would be such a pleasure to me.”
    Trotter, you rat. “I don’t have anything to read,” Gilly said.
    â€œOK, that ain’t a problem. Mr. Randolph’s got enough books to start a public library, haven’t you, Mr. Randolph?”
    â€œWell, I do have a few,” he chuckled. “Course you’ve got the Good Book right here.”
    â€œWhat good book?” demanded Gilly, interested in spite of herself. She did like a good book.
    â€œI believe Mr. Randolph is referring to the Holy Bible.”
    â€œThe Bible ?” Gilly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She had a vision of herself trapped forever in the dusty brown parlor reading the Bible to Trotter and Mr. Randolph. She would read on and on forever, while the two of them nodded piously at each other. She jumped up from her chair. “I’ll get a book,” she said. “I’ll run over to Mr. Randolph’s and choose something.”
    She was afraid they would try to stop her, force her to read the Bible, but they both seemed pleased and let her go.
    Mr. Randolph’s front door was unlocked. The house was pitch-black and mustier than Trotter’s. Quickly, Gilly pushed a light switch. Nothing happened. Of course. Why should Mr. Randolph care if a bulb burned out? She stumbled from the hall to where she thought the living room should be, fumbling along the wall with her fingers until she found another switch. To her relief this one worked—only 40 watts worth, maybe—but still there was light.
    Leaning against two walls of the crowded little room were huge antique bookcases that reached the ceiling. And stacked or lying upside down, even put in backward, were books—hundreds of them. They looked old and thick with dust. It was hard to think of funny little Mr. Randolph actually reading them. She wondered how long he had been blind. She wished she could push her mind past those blank white eyes into whatever of Mr. Randolph all these books must represent.
    She went toward the larger shelf to the right of the door, but she felt strangely shy about actually touching the books. It was almost as though she were meddling in another person’s brain. Wait. Maybe they were all for show. Maybe Mr. Randolph collected books, trying to act like some big-shot genius, even though he himself couldn’t read a word. No one would ever catch on. They’d think he didn’t read because he couldn’t see. That was it, of course. She felt better. Now she was free to look at the books themselves.
    Without thinking, she began to straighten out the shelves as she read the titles. She saw several volumes of an encyclopedia set: “Antarctica to Balfe,” then “Jerez