He looked dreadful. Fatty had blacked out two of his front teeth, and had put in one cheek-pad so that it looked as if he had tooth-ache on the right side of his face. He had put on grey, untrimmed eyebrows, and had stuck on a bristly little grey moustache. His face was lined with dirty creases and wrinkles. Fatty was an adept at creasing up his face! His wig was one of his best—grey straggling hair with a bald patch in the middle.
Fatty had laughed at himself when he looked in the long glass he kept in his shed. What a tramp! He wore holey old gloves on his hands, dirty corduroy trousers, an equally dirty shirt—and the boots!
Fatty could only hobble along in them, so he took an ash-stick he had cut from the hedge on one of his walks to help him along. He stuck an old clay pipe in the corner of his mouth and grinned at himself. He felt really proud, and for half a minute wondered if he should present himself at the back door and ask for a crust of bread from the cook.
He decided not to. The last time he had done that the cook had screamed the place down, and his mother had very nearly caught him. He went cautiously out of the shed to the gate at the bottom of the garden. He was not going to risk meeting any of his household.
The old tramp hobbled down the road, sucking at his empty pipe, and making funny little grunting noises. He made his way to the cobbler’s and went inside the dark little shop.
The cobbler was at the back, working. He came into the shop when the bell rang. “What do you want?” he said.
“Oooh—ah,” said Fatty, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “It’s my boots, Mister. They hurt me something crool. Too small they are, and they want mending too. You got any bigger ones to sell?”
The cobbler bent over his counter to look at Fatty’s feet. “What size are they—elevens or twelves?” he said. “No, I haven’t got that size to sell. It’s a big size.”
The old tramp gave a peculiar wheezy laugh, “Ah yes, it’s big. I was a big man once, I was! I bet you haven’t got anyone in this here neighbourhood that’s got feet bigger than mine!”
“There’s two people with big feet here,” said the cobbler, considering. “There’s Mr. Goon the policeman and there’s Colonel Cross—they’re the biggest of all. I charge them more when I sole their boots—the leather I use for their repairs! Do you want me to mend your boots?”
“Ay, I do—if you can get me another pair to put on while you mend these,” said the old tramp, and he gave his wheezy laugh again. “Or couldn’t I borrow a pair of Colonel Cross’s—have you got a pair in to mend?”
“No, I haven’t—and you wouldn’t get ’em if I had,” said the cobbler sharply. “Get along with you! Do you want to get me into trouble?”
“No, no,” said the old tramp. “Do his boots have rubber heels on?”
The cobbler lost his temper. “What’s that to do with you? Coming in here wasting my time! You’ll be wanting to know if the butcher has brown or black laces next. Be off with you, and don’t come back again.”
“That’s all right, sir, that’s all right,” wheezed the old man, shuffling to the door, where he stopped and had a most alarming coughing-fit.
“You stop smoking a clay pipe and you’ll get rid of that cough,” said the cobbler, bad-temperedly. Then he saw someone else trying to get past the coughing tramp. “Get out of my shop and let the next person come in.”
The next person was a burly man with a little black moustache, a dark brown face, dark glasses and big feet.
He pushed past the old tramp. “Give me room,” he said, in a sharp voice. Fatty pricked up his ears at once. He knew that familiar voice—yes, and he knew that unfamiliar figure too—it was Goon!
“Goon! In another disguise!” thought Fatty in amazement and mirth. “He’s done better this time—with dark glasses to hide his frog-eyes, and some stuff on his red face to make it look tanned.”
He looked at the burly Goon. He wore white flannel trousers and shirt with no tie, and a red belt round his portly middle. On his feet were enormous white shoes.
“Why the disguise?” wondered Fatty. “Just practising, like me? Or is he going to snoop round somewhere? Perhaps he has found out where or who Rods is. I’d better stand by and find out.”
He shuffled out and sat down on a wooden bench, just outside. He strained his ears to see if he could catch any words. What was Goon doing in the cobbler’s? Surely he hadn’t got the same bright idea as Pip had had—of asking about repairs to large-size boots!
Goon had! He was very pleased about it. He had made up a nice little story to help him along.
“Good morning,” he said to the cobbler. “Did my brother leave his boots here to be mended? He asked me to come in and see. Very large size, twelves or thirteens.”
“What name?” asked the cobbler.
“He didn’t give his name,” said Mr. Goon. “Just left the boots, he said.”
“Well, I haven’t any boots as big as that here,” said the cobbler. “I’ve only got two customers with feet that size.”
“Who are they?” asked Goon.
“What’s that to you?” said the cobbler impatiently. “Am I going to waste all my morning talking about big boots?”
“I know one of your customers is Mr. Goon,” said Mr. Goon. “I know Mr. Goon very very well. He’s a great friend of mine. Very nice fellow.”
“Oh, is he? Then you know him better than I do,” said the cobbler. “I’ve got no time for that pompous old bobby.”
Mr. Goon went purple under his tan. “Who’s your other customer?” he asked, in such an unexpectedly fierce voice that the cobbler stared. “The one with big feet, I mean. You’d better answer my question. For all you know I might have been sent here by Mr. Goon himself!”
“Bah!” said the cobbler, and then thought better of it. “The other fellow is Colonel Cross,” he said.
“Does he have rubber heels?” asked Mr. Goon and was immediately amazed by the cobbler’s fury.
“Rubber heels! How many more people want to know if he has rubber heels! What do I care? Go and ask him yourself!” raged the cobbler, going as purple as Mr. Goon. “You and that old tramp are a pair, you are!”
“What old tramp?” asked Goon in surprise.
“The one you pushed past at the door—with feet as big as yourself!” raged the cobbler. “Clear out of my shop now. I’ve got work to do. Rubber heels!”
Goon went out with great dignity. He longed to tell the cobbler who he was—what a shock for him that would be. What was it he had called him? “A pompous old bobby!” Goon put that away in his memory. One day he would make the cobbler sorry for that rude remark!
Now, what about this tramp with big feet? Where was he? He might be the thief! There didn’t seem many people with enormous feet in Peterswood as far as he could find out—only himself and Colonel Cross. He would have to enquire about Colonel Cross’s boots—see if they had rubber heels—though it wasn’t very likely that Colonel Cross went burgling other people’s houses.
Goon blinked in the bright sunshine, quite glad of his dark glasses. Where was that tramp? Well—what a piece of luck—there he was, sitting on the bench nearby!
Goon sat down heavily beside him. Fatty took one look and longed to laugh. He saw Goon looking at his big old boots. Ah—they had roused his suspicions. Well, Fatty was quite prepared to sit there as long as Goon—and to have a bit of fun too. He stuck his boots out well in front of him. Come on, Goon—say something!
A Little Bit of Fun
Goon hadn’t the slightest idea that he was sitting next to Fatty. He looked through his dark glasses at the dirty old man. Could he be the thief? He tried to see his hands, but Fatty was still wearing the holey old gloves.
“Want some baccy?” said Goon, seeing that Fatty’s clay pipe was empty.
Fatty looked at him and then put his hand behind his ear.
“Want some baccy?” said Goon a little more loudly.
Still Fatty held his hand behind his ear and looked enquiringly at Goon, sucking at his dirty old pipe, and squinting horribly.
“WANT SOME BACCY?” roared Goon.
“Oh, ah—yes—I’ve got a bad back-ache,” answered Fatty. “Oooh, my back-ache. Somethink crool, it is.”
“I said, ‘WANT SOME BACCY?’ ” yelled Goon again.