“Open their eyes nicely, this will,” he thought, trudging off. “Hallo! - there’s that little Frenchy fellow. I’ll just find out where he’s staying.”
“Hi!” yelled Mr. Goon to Fatty, who was sauntering along on the other side of the street, hoping that the policeman would see him. “You come here a minute.”
“You call me?” said Fatty politely, in the high, foreign kind of voice he had used before.
“I got a few questions to ask you,” said Clear-Orf. “Who gave you that there rude note to deliver to me this morning?”
“Rude? Ah, non, non, non - surely it was not rude!” said Fatty in a shocked tone, wagging his hands just as his French master did at school. “That I cannot believe, Mr. Poleeeceman.”
“Well, you look here at this,” said Mr. Goon. “Maybe you can tell me whose writing this is, see?”
He took the envelope from his pocket, and pulled out the sheet of paper. “There you are - you take a squint at that and tell me if you know who wrote that rude letter.”
Fatty took it - and at that moment the wind most conveniently puffed down the street. Fatty let go the paper and it fluttered away. Fatty sprinted after it at once, and, when he bent down to pick it up, it was easy to slip it into his pocket and turn to Clear-Orf with the other letter in his hand.
“Drat it, it nearly went!” said Mr. Goon, and he almost snatched it from Fatty’s hand. “Better not flap it about in the wind. I’ll put it back into the envelope.”
He did, and Fatty grinned to himself. It had been so easy - much, much easier than he had expected. What a kind puff of wind that had been!