The Mystery of Holly Lane

“Bets—don’t gobble your porridge like that!” said Mrs. Hilton. “There’s no hurry, surely!”“Well, there is, Mother,” said Bets. “I’ve got to go and meet Fatty’s train this morning. Have you forgotten that he’s coming home today?”“But he’s not arriving till the middle of the morning, is he?” said her mother. “There’s plenty of time. Please don’t gobble like that.”“I expect Bets wants to go and lay a red carpet down for Fatty, and get a band to play to welcome him,” said her brother Pip, with a grin. “That’s what you’re in a hurry about, aren’t you, Bets? Got to go and round up the band and see that all their instruments are polished!”“Don’t be so silly,” said Bets, crossly, and tried to kick him under the table. He dodged his legs out of the way and she kicked her father’s ankle instead. He put down his paper and glared.“Oh, Dad—I’m sorry!” said Bets. “Please I’m very sorry. I meant to kick Pip. You see . . .”“Any more of this kind of behaviour at breakfast-time and you can both go out of the room,” said Mr. Hilton, and raised his paper again, leaning it against the big milk-jug. There was a dead silence for a minute or two except for the sound of spoons in the porridge bowls.