But he got off his bicycle when he saw the old woman. Fatty was drooping over, pretending to be asleep.
"Here, you!" said Goon. "Move on! And where's your licence to sell balloons?"
The others heard this, and looked alarmed. Did you have to have a licence to peddle balloons? They were sure Fatty hadn't got one.
Fatty took no notice, but gave a gentle snore. Mr. Goon shook the shoulder of the Balloon-woman, and Fatty pretended to awake with a jerk.
"Where's your licence?" said Goon. He was always rude and arrogant to people like the old Balloon-woman.
"What did you say, sir?" said Fatty, in a whining voice. "Want to buy a balloon, sir? What colour do you fancy?"
"I don't want a balloon," said Goon angrily. "I want to see your licence."
"Oh, ah, my licence?" said Fatty, and began to pat all over his extremely voluminous skirts, as if to find where a licence would possibly be hidden. "Somewhere about, sir, somewhere about. If you can just wait a few minutes, kind sir, I'll find it in the pocket of one of my petticoats. An old woman like me, sir, she wants plenty of petticoats. Sleeping out under hedges is cold, sir, even on a summer night."
"Gah!" said Goon rudely, mounted his bicycle and rode off, ringing his bell furiously at a small dog that dared to run across the road in front of him. Was he, the Great Goon, in charge of a First-Class Case, going to wait whilst an old pedlar-woman fished for ages in her petticoats for a licence he didn't really want to see? Gah!
When Goon was safely out of sight the others went back to Fatty, amused and half-alarmed. "Oh, Fatty! How can you act like that with Goon? If only he'd known it was really you!"