‘Sorry, sir, my bicycle sort of swerved over,’ said the boy. ‘Did I hurt you, sir? I’m downright sorry!’
Mr. Goon’s temper cooled down at the boy’s politeness. ‘What house are you wanting?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got a telegram for Master Philip Hilton,’ said the telegraph-boy, looking at the name and address on the orange envelope in his hand.
‘Oh! Here’s Pip!’ said Bets. ‘Oooh, Pip - a telegram for you!’
The boy propped his bicycle by the side of the pavement, its pedal catching the kerb. But he didn’t balance it very firmly and it fell over with a clatter, the handle-bar catching Mr. Goon on the shin.
He let out such a yell that all the children jumped. He hopped round, trying to hold his ankle and keep his balance too. Bets gave a sudden giggle.
‘Oh, sir, I’m sorry!’ cried the boy. ‘That dratted bike! It’s always falling over. Don’t you be angry with me, sir. Don’t you report me, will you? I’m that sorry!’
Mr. Goon’s red face was redder than ever. He glared at the telegraph-boy, and rubbed his ankle again. ‘You deliver your telegram and clear-orf,’ he said. ‘Wasting the time of the post-office, that’s what you’re doing!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the boy meekly, and gave Pip the orange envelope. Pip tore it open, full of curiosity. He had never had a telegram sent to him before.
He read it out loud. It was from Fatty.