Mystery of the Hidden House by Enid Blyton

and a hanky,
    Honest truth, no hanky-panky!
    A rag, a tin, a pencil-end,
    How very clever is our friend!”
    Fatty couldn’t go on because the others were laughing so much. Ern was even more impressed. But he felt down in the dumps too. He could never, never write pomes like that. How did Fatty do it? Ern determined to stand up in his bedroom that night when he was alone and see if portry rolled out of him as it did out of Fatty.
    “You’re marvellous,” he said to Fatty. “You ought to be a poet, you reely ought.”
    “Can’t,” said Fatty. “I’m going to be a detective.”
    “Couldn’t you be both?” said Ern.
    “Possibly, but not probably,” said Fatty. “Not worth it! Any one can spout that sort of drivel.”
    Ern was astonished. Could Fatty really think that was drivel? What a boy!
    “Well, to come back to what we were talking about,” said Fatty, “we’ve decided, have we, to let our Ern look for the loot?”
    “Yes,” chorused every one.
    “Right,” said Fatty.
    “When do I look for it?” said Ern, almost quivering with excitement. “Tonight?”
    “Well, it’s not usual to look for loot before the robbery has been committed,” said Fatty, his face very serious. “But if you think there’s a chance of finding it before it’s put there, you go on and do it, Ern.”
    Bets gave a giggle. Ern worked all this out and blushed. “Yes. I see what you mean. I won’t be looking till after the robbery. But when will the robbery be?”
    “The papers will tell you,” said Fatty. “You look in your uncle’s papers each morning, and as soon as you see that the robbery has been done, you’ll know it’s time to hunt in the old mill. And if you want to tell your uncle about it, we’ve no objection.”
    “I don’t want to,” said Ern. “Well, I must be going. Lovaduck! You’re a one for spouting portry, aren’t you? I can’t get over it. So long!”
    He went, and the others began to laugh. Poor old Ern. His was a wonderful leg to pull! Larry suddenly saw his “portry notebook” left on the table.
    “Hallo! He’s left this. Fatty, write something in it! Something about Goon. Go on!
    “I’ll write a ‘pome’ about Goon himself, in Ern’s handwriting,” said Fatty, beginning to enjoy himself. He could imitate anyone’s writing. Bets thought admiringly that really there wasn’t anything that Fatty couldn’t do - and do better than any one else too! She stood close beside him and watched him.
    He found a page in the book, and borrowed a pencil from Pip. “Ern will be simply amazed to find a poem about his uncle written in his own book in his own handwriting,” said Fatty. “He’ll certainly think he must have written it himself - and he won’t know when! Golly, I wish I could be there when he finds it!”
    He began to write. As usual the words flowed out straight away. No puzzling his brains for Fatty, no searching for a rhyme! It just came out like water from a tap.
    “TO MY DEAR UNCLE
    Oh how I love thee, Uncle dear,
    Although thine eyes like frogs’ appear,
    Thy body is so fat and round,
    Thy heavy footsteps shake the ground.
    Thy temper is so sweet and mild
    ’Twould frighten e’en the smallest child,
    And when thou speakest, people say,
    ‘Now did we hear a donkey bray?’
    Dear Uncle, how…”
    “Fatty! Ern’s coming back!” said Bets, suddenly. Her sharp ears had heard footsteps. “Shut the book, quick.”
    Fatty shut the book and slid it over the table. He picked up Buster and began to play with him. The others crowded round, laughing.
    Ern’s head came round the door. “Did I leave my portry notebook here? Oh yes, I did. Silly of me. Good-bye all.”
    He took bis book and disappeared. “What a pity you couldn’t finish the poem, Fatty,” said Daisy. “It was such a good one - especially all the thees and thys. Just the kind of thing Ern would write.”
    “And it was all in Ern’s own writing too,” said Bets. She gave Fatty a hug. “Fatty, you’re the cleverest person in the world. How do you manage to copy other people’s writing?”
    “Just a