“I don’t really think it’s any of your business, is it?” said Fatty, in the polite voice that always infuriated Mr. Goon.
“You been to Milton House any more?” said Mr. Goon, who had a definite feeling that the house had something more to do with the mystery than he knew.
“Milton House? Where’s that?” said Fatty innocently.
Mr. Goon swelled, and his face began to turn the purple colour that fascinated the children.
“None of your sauce,” he began. “You know where Milton House is as well as I do - better, perhaps!
“Oh! - you mean that old place we played hide-and-seek in the other day,” said Fatty, as if he had only just remembered. “Why don’t you come and have a game with us some time, Mr. Goon?”
Buster began to growl again. Mr. Goon edged away from him. That was the worst of talking to Fatty. He always had Buster with him, and Buster could always bring any conversation to a remarkably quick end.
Buster ran at Mr. Goon’s ankles, and the policeman kicked out. “Now don’t you hurt his other leg!” cried Fatty, and Mr. Goon immediately thought that it was his kicks two or three days before that had caused Buster’s leg to be bandaged.
“Well, you call him orf,” he said. “And clear-orf yourself. Hanging about in telephone boxes! Always messing about somewhere, and hanging around!”
He went off, and Fatty grinned. Poor old Clear-Orf! Fatty’s quick tongue could always get the better of him. Fatty strolled back to Pip’s house.