by Michael Bond
“Not two, Paddington,” explained Judy. “To. That’s quite a different matter. The Captain means he had to stop the ship because he thought you’d fallen overboard.”
“Been on this run since I was a boy,” said the Captain gruffly. “Never had a man overboard yet, let alone a bear.”
“You didn’t really have one this time, did you?” said Judy bravely.
The Captain thought for a moment. “True enough, young lady,” he said at last. “Only trouble is I’ve got to write me log out and it doesn’t look very good. Takes a bit of explainin’. Especially when the same bear wins the ship’s sweep because we didn’t make as many miles yesterday as everyone else thought we would!”
“What!” echoed Paddington, hardly able to believe his ears. “I’ve won the ship’s sweep?”
“One hundred pounds and twenty pence,” broke in the first officer, handing over a large envelope. “I should count it to make sure it’s all there.”
“Congratulations, bear,” said the Captain, taking hold of Paddington’s other paw. “Mind you,” he added sternly, “if you travel in my ship again you’d better not let it happen twice. Otherwise me suspicions might get aroused and I’ll have to clap you in irons.”
Paddington looked most alarmed at the Captain’s words. “I don’t think I shall be going to Peru again for quite a long time,” he announced hastily.
The Captain broke into a broad smile. “In that case,” he said, looking at the clock, “seeing as we’re nearly back in England I suggest we all adjourn to my table for breakfast. Might not get the chance again.”
“Well, I think you’re very lucky, Paddington,” said Mrs Brown, as they followed the others down a long corridor. “It’s not many bears who have the honour of being invited to sit at the Captain’s table.”
The Captain paused as they entered the dining-room. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I don’t know as I’ve had the honour of askin’ one before. Especially one who’s just won one of me sweeps.”
ON THE FIRST day of his return to number thirty-two Windsor Gardens, Paddington was extremely busy. Apart from all the unpacking he had to do there were visits to be paid, stories to be told – not once, but time and time again – cupboards to be investigated, old and familiar chairs to be sat in; in fact, all the thousand and one things to do with settling down once more into a normal life at his old home.
Everyone was so pleased to see him and to hear all about his trip that the hours seemed to melt away and by the time he went to bed that evening he felt as if he hadn’t been away at all.
After weeks of sleeping in a bunk it was nice to be back in his old bed, especially as during his absence Mr Brown had redecorated his room so that it now had powder-blue walls and gleaming white, freshly painted woodwork, not to mention a notice board for his day-to-day reminders and a brand-new carpet on the floor.
“The old one was getting rather threadbare,” explained Mrs Brown, when she brought him his breakfast in bed the following morning. “We’ve bought you a patterned one so that it won’t show your stains quite so much.”
“My stains, Mrs Brown,” exclaimed Paddington, looking most offended as he sat up in bed rubbing his eyes.
“Your stains,” repeated Mrs Bird sternly, letting in a flood of sunshine as she drew the curtains. “The old carpet was so stiff with dried marmalade we practically had to saw it in two to get it out of the room.”
Mrs Brown looked nervously at Paddington. “Have you anything planned for this morning?” she asked.
Paddington dipped his paw thoughtfully into the jar of marmalade. “Not really, Mrs Brown,” he announced vaguely. “There’s some special shopping to do and I want to put my winnings in the bank for safety.”
“A very good idea,” said Mrs Brown. “I don’t like to think of you carrying all that money around in your suitcase. You never know what may happen.”
Mrs Brown looked most relieved at Paddington’s reply. Things had been unusually quiet just lately at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens and she’d woken that morning with the nasty feeling that the peace of recent weeks was about to be shattered.
“I shouldn’t go counting your chickens before they’re hatched,” said Mrs Bird grimly, when Mrs Brown gave voice to her thoughts as they were going back downstairs.
Although she didn’t say anything, the Browns’ housekeeper also had the feeling that she was witnessing the quiet before the storm. Nevertheless, try as she might, even Mrs Bird could find little to grumble at when Paddington appeared at the kitchen door some while later, dressed and ready to greet the morning air.
His fur was well brushed and even his old duffle coat looked unusually respectable as he disappeared out of the house and hurried off down the road in the direction of the Portobello Market, carrying his suitcase in one paw and an important looking booklet marked FFLOYDS BANK in the other.
Pausing only to call in at the baker’s in order to renew his standing order for buns and to have a chat about his various experiences while he’d been away, he hurried on towards the antique shop run by his friend, Mr Gruber.
Normally Paddington shared his elevenses with Mr Gruber, and he wanted to warn his friend that he might be a little late that morning.
Paddington was a popular bear with the traders in the market and his progress down the Portobello Road was much slower than he had intended so that, what with one thing and another, by the time he reached the bank it was almost ten o’clock.
However, he was pleased to see that he was first in the queue and after looking round carefully to make sure no one was watching he settled himself down on the pavement, withdrew the bundle of notes from his suitcase, and began counting them once again in order to make sure they were all there.
Paddington had had an account with the local branch of Ffloyds for some time, but although he occasionally paid them a visit in order to have a chat with the manager and to make sure everything was all right, it wasn’t often he had the opportunity to put any actual money in and he was looking forward to the event.
The notes were crisp and new and rather difficult to separate with paws so that in no time at all he became lost to the outside world and it wasn’t until a shadow fell across the pavement that he realised anyone else was about.
Hurriedly stuffing the money under his duffle coat, Paddington looked up to meet the gaze of a tall, rather distinguished looking man in a black overcoat and bowler hat.
The man raised his hat politely. “Pardon me, bear,” he said. “I couldn’t help noticing what you were doing and I wondered if we were here on the same mission.”
Not to be outdone, Paddington jumped to his feet, still clutching the money tightly beneath a fold in his duffle coat, and raised his own hat with a free paw. “I don’t think I’m here on a mission,” he replied. “I’ve come to put my money in the bank.”
“Look after the pennies,” said the man approvingly, “and the pounds will look after themselves. That’s what I always say.”
“Oh, they’re not pennies,” said Paddington importantly. “They’re pounds. I won over one hundred on a ship’s sweep.”
“One hundred pounds!” echoed the man with interest. “You don’t mean to tell me you’re putting it all into the bank?”
“Not all one hundred pounds,” said Paddington. “I want to save part of it to buy some presents.” The man took hold of Paddington’s arm and led him a little way along the street. “What a good thing we met,” he exclaimed. “It must have been fate.” He looked all around and then lowered his voice confidingly. “Now, if you’d told me you were taking your money out, I’d have understood. Between you, me and the gatepost, all’s not well with Ffloyds.”
Paddington’s eyes grew larger as he listened. “What!” he exclaimed hotly. “All’s not well with Ffloyds!”
“Ssh!” The man put his finger to his lips as he drew Paddington into a nearby doorway. “Not too loud, bear,” he said hastily. “You might start a panic and then there’s no knowing what’ll happen
.”
He peered out into the street and then eyed Paddington thoughtfully as if trying to make up his mind whether he could trust him or not. “You look like a bear of the world,” he said at last. “I wonder… can you tell me what we’re standing on at this moment?”
Paddington looked most surprised at the question. “A paving stone,” he answered promptly.
“Aha!” said the man. “But can you tell me what’s underneath that?”
“Earth,” said Paddington doubtfully.
The man gave a chuckle and then withdrew a small glass phial of dark liquid from an inside pocket. “I’ll let you into a secret, bear,” he said, as he held it up to the light. “Oil! That’s what we’re standing on. Millions of pounds’ worth of oil.” He pointed towards a dark patch on the road nearby. “Ninety-nine people out of a hundred,” he continued, “would say that had dripped from a car. They don’t realise it’s seeping up through the ground under their very feet. I tell you… anyone who buys a share in the Portobello Oil Company now is going to make a fortune out of the interest alone.”
“The Portobello Oil Company?” exclaimed Paddington. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that before.”
The man felt in his pocket again. “Not many people have,” he replied. “It hasn’t been going very long. Look here, bear,” he said, as he held out a piece of paper. “I must say I’ve taken a liking to you. These shares are really worth one hundred and ten pounds each but I think I could manage to let you have one for one hundred.”
Paddington looked at the man doubtfully. “It’s very kind of you,” he said. “But I don’t think I could afford one hundred pounds. I really wanted to buy some presents as well.”
“Nonsense!” said the man briskly, as he crossed off the word ONE HUNDRED AND TEN on the piece of paper and wrote in the word ONE HUNDRED. “You’ll be able to buy all the presents you need with the interest – and more besides.”
Before Paddington had a chance to even open his mouth let alone say anything he found himself clutching the share while the man quickly transferred the bundle of notes from his paw to an inside pocket.
“Now, don’t forget,” he warned. “Not a word to anyone. I don’t want the news to get around. At least, not until the derricks arrive and then you can tell anyone you like.”
“The derricks?” repeated Paddington.
“The oil-drilling equipment,” explained the man. “I have to go and see about them this morning.”
“When do I collect my interest?” asked Paddington anxiously.
The man chuckled. “I can see you have an eye for business,” he said. “A bear after my own heart. If you care to meet me here tomorrow morning – same time – same place, I’ll see what I can do. But remember,” he whispered. “Keep it under your hat. We don’t want the bottom to drop out of the market.”
With that he gave a final wave of his rolled umbrella and then hurried off up the Portobello Road leaving Paddington standing on the pavement looking at his piece of paper with an excited gleam in his eyes.
It was an impressive-looking document, covered with a flowery sort of print which was rather difficult to read. Studying it he was just able to make out the words PORTOBELLO OIL COMPANY across the top, but underneath, the print was so small and there was so much of it he soon decided he would have to take it home and examine it more closely at his leisure.
Remembering the man’s instructions, he folded the piece of paper carefully into four and then placed it under his hat for safety.
Paddington had never owned any sort of share before, let alone a hundred-pound one in an oil company, and he felt most important as he made his way back along the road. All the same, he trod very carefully when he crossed over to the other side in the direction of the shops. Apart from telling him to keep the matter under his hat the man had also said something about not wanting the bottom to drop out of the market and he wasn’t the sort of bear to take any unnecessary chances.
When he reached the other side of the road Paddington hesitated for a moment outside the window of a small store. There was a thoughtful expression on his face as he peered through the glass at the various items on display.
Although he’d brought home several small presents for the Browns, he was anxious to buy them something really nice in return for their kindness in paying for his trip to Peru.
With the interest on his new share Paddington felt sure he would be able to buy some very good presents indeed and he felt equally certain that the owner of the shop would be only too pleased to wait until the next day for his money, for despite his habit of driving a hard bargain, all the shopkeepers and other dealers in the market held Paddington in high regard.
With the promise of riches to come Paddington took rather longer over his shopping that morning than he’d at first intended and by the time he reached Mr Gruber’s antique shop for elevenses his friend was already waiting anxiously outside.
“I began to think you weren’t coming, Mr Brown!” he exclaimed. “I had to put a saucer over your mug so that the cocoa wouldn’t get cold.”
Paddington sank gratefully into one of the deck chairs on the pavement while Mr Gruber bustled around setting a tray of buns on a nearby table. “I’ve been buying a few coming-home presents, Mr Gruber,” he explained.
Mr Gruber looked at him reprovingly over the top of his glasses. “It’s very thoughtful of you, Mr Brown,” he said, “and I’m sure everyone will be most grateful, but I hope you’ve left yourself some money to put in the bank for a rainy day.
“There have been one or two rather nasty cases of fraud in the market just lately,” he continued, before Paddington could reply. “I was very pleased this morning when you told me you were putting your money in a safe place.”
Mr Gruber settled himself in a deck chair alongside Paddington and sipped his cocoa. “It seems that someone has been going around selling false shares for a firm called the Portobello Oil Company. You’ll find this difficult to believe, Mr Brown, but one or two foolish people have actually bought one!”
Mr Gruber looked at Paddington with some concern as a loud choking sound came from behind his cocoa mug. “I do hope it’s not too hot, Mr Brown,” he exclaimed.
“It’s all right, Mr Gruber,” gasped Paddington hastily. “I was having trouble with one of my buns. I think a currant must have gone down the wrong way.”
Mr Gruber gave Paddington a pat on the back and then settled himself once again in order to resume his story.
“The man they’re after,” he said, “is called ‘Jim the Dandy’.”
‘“Jim the Dandy’?” echoed Paddington, looking more and more worried.
“That’s right,” said Mr Gruber. “They call him that because of the way he dresses. Just like someone who works in the City. In fact, you’d have a job to tell him from the real thing.
“I hope they catch him soon,” he continued, “otherwise he’ll begin to give the market a bad name. I was talking to a policeman only yesterday and he agreed with me that there’s only one thing worse than selling something that isn’t there to sell, and that’s buying something and not paying for it.”
Mr Gruber shook his head sadly. “There’s been quite a bit of that going on just lately, too, Mr Brown,” he added. “But I’m pleased to say the police are hot on the trail of the culprits. I only hope when they do catch up with them they’ll get what they deserve.”
Mr Gruber broke off as before his astonished gaze Paddington suddenly jumped out of his chair, removed his overcoat and hastily bundled it over his pile of shopping. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Mr Brown?” he asked anxiously. “I must say you don’t look too good.”
Paddington gave a worried glance up and down the market. “I’m all right, thank you very much, Mr Gruber,” he said mysteriously. “But I’m not too sure about things in general!”
Mr Gruber knew better than to inquire into matters which might be difficult to explain. All the same he began to look more and more con
cerned as Paddington slumped back into his chair leaving a half-eaten bun untouched on the plate by his side.
But if Mr Gruber looked worried, Paddington himself was even more woebegone. His face had been long enough to start with, but it lengthened still further some while later as he made his way back towards Windsor Gardens and had time to consider all that had happened that morning.
By the time he reached the familiar green front door of number thirty-two his face had fallen to its longest ever, but by then his hat was pulled down so well over his forehead, and his head had sunk so low into his shoulders that only the closest observer would have noticed anything amiss.
Paddington lifted the brim of his hat, gave one last worried glance up and down Windsor Gardens, and then disappeared from view, closing the door behind him with a loud click which seemed to suggest that one member of the Brown family at least wouldn’t be receiving any more visitors that day.
MRS BIRD WAS the first member of the household to notice the change that had suddenly come over Paddington.
“I can’t understand it,” she remarked the following day. “He was so bright and cheerful yesterday morning. Now he looks as if he’s got all the cares in the world on his shoulders.”
“I do hope it’s not the after-effects of all his travelling,” said Mrs Brown.
“Whatever it is, it happened when he went out shopping in the market,” said Mrs Bird decidedly. “He came back afterwards looking very down in the mouth and he didn’t even finish his treacle pudding at lunch time.”
“I must admit he has been acting rather strangely,” agreed Mrs Brown. “I caught him drilling a hole in the garden with Henry’s brace and bit yesterday afternoon. He seemed most upset about something.”
“If you ask me,” said Mrs Bird decidedly, “it’s got something to do with money.”
“Money?” Mrs Brown began to look even more worried. “Whatever makes you say that?”