“Come on out!” he roared. “Up the steps, man, and put your hands up!”
Some one came tumbling up the steps. It was poor Mr. Goon, without his helmet, which was lost somewhere in the coal, and as black as a negro. He stumbled out of the door, blinking in the bright torch-light shone on him by the Inspector. He was so dirty and black that neither Fatty nor the Inspector recognized him.
Mr. Goon was angry, afraid, and puzzled. He walked through the kitchen, with the Inspector prodding him from behind, and gaped to see the crowd of men in the hall. He also gaped to see the children there, opening and shutting his mouth like a goldfish.
Buster was the only one who recognized poor Mr. Goon. With a torrent of loud barks he flung himself joyfully at the ankles of his enemy.
“You clear-orf!” said Goon angrily, and kicked out at the dog. “What’s all this-ere?”
“It’s Clear-Orf!” cried all the Five Find-Outers in the greatest surprise.
“Goon!” said the Inspector, also in the utmost astonishment. “How did you - how is it - what has...” But the Inspector didn’t finish. Instead he burst out into such hearty laughter that the other members of the Squad grinned too.
“Well, Goon, this is an extraordinary meeting,” said the Inspector, eyeing the dirty, angry policeman with amusement. “I called at your place to find out if you knew anything about the goings-on here - but you were not there.”
“I were locked up in that filthy coal-cellar!” said Goon, and he glared at Fatty. “And that’s the one who locked me in! He wants watching, he does. He’s a Frenchy fellow, up to no good - in with the thieves, I don’t doubt - or whatever these fellows are you’ve caught. Wait till I get my hands on him!”
“Don’t you know me, Mr. Goon?” said Fatty, in his ordinary voice, and Mr. Goon jumped. He stared at the black curly wig, the big eyebrows, the sticking-out teeth - the face of that “Frenchy fellow,” not a doubt of it, but the voice was Fatty’s.