Pip said he’d keep an eye open. Anyway, what did it matter? His own letter would come in the morning and they’d soon find out the right address.
He saw the book on the table when he went down ready for dinner, cleaned and brushed. He read the name on the wrapping-paper... but there was no address there yet.
‘Shall I write Gladys’s address for you, Mother?’ he asked politely. ‘Just to save you time.’
‘I can’t imagine why you and Bets are so anxious to do a little writing tonight!’ said Mrs. Hilton, looking up from her book. ‘No, Pip. I can’t be bothered to look up the address now, and I can’t remember it off-hand. Leave it.’
So it had to be left. Pip was glad to think his letter was coming in the morning. He was sure that had been a better idea than Bets’!
Pip was down early next morning, waiting for the postman. He took all the letters out of the box and put them by his mother’s plate. His own was there, addressed in Fatty’s disguised handwriting.
‘There’s a letter for Gladys, Mother,’ said Pip, at breakfast-time. ‘We’ll have to re-address it.’
‘My dear boy, you don’t need to tell me that!’ said Mrs. Hilton.
‘Did you put the address on my parcel?’ asked Bets, attacking her boiled egg hungrily.
‘No. I couldn’t remember it last night,’ said Mrs. Hilton, reading her letters.