Poor Fatty was dragged down off his steps and pulled into the middle of the hall. He was frightened, but he meant to put a bold face on it.
"Who are you?" said the first man, and shone his torch into Fatty's face.
"Napoleon," said Fatty, trying to brave things out. "Just doing it for a joke!"
"He's only a boy," said one of the men, pulling off Napoleon's hat. "How old are you? "
"Fourteen," said Fatty.
The men stared at him. "What are we going to do with him?" said one. "Can't take him off in the car with us—too risky. And we can't waste time dumping him anywhere, because if we're not on time with this job, we’ll fail. What he wants is a jolly good questioning and a good thrashing, and he'll get it—but not now. It's time we went."
"We'll be back here again tonight with the stuff," said another man. "Well tie him up, gag him, put him into the cupboard over there, and lock him in. He can't give the game away then. Well deal with him when we come back. He can't know anything about the job tonight, except what he's just heard, so he won't have warned any one."
"Right," said the other men, and then began a bad time for poor Fatty. He was rolled up in a curtain, with his hands and feet tied, and a big handkerchief was bound across his mouth. Then he was popped into the cupboard with Napoleon, and the door was shut and locked on him.
His only comfort was that Mr. Goon was still there, posing stolidly, quite unsuspected. As soon as the men had got away, Goon would surely come to his rescue and untie him. Then he, Fatty would be in at the last, after all.
He could hear nothing in the cupboard. He did not hear the men go out of the hall and lock the door. He did not see Goon wait on his step for a few moments and then relax and give a deep sigh. Mr. Goon had had a most surprising and unpleasant time himself from the moment he had sneezed to the moment the men had at last gone.