lifting it up on to the stove. It was even more difficult putting the mixture into the stew as it kept sticking to his paws and as fast as he got it off one paw it stuck to the other. In the end he had to sit on the draining board and use the broom handle.
Paddington wasn’t very impressed with Mrs Bird’s cookery book. The instructions seemed all wrong. Not only had the dumplings been difficult to make, but the ones they showed in the picture were much too small. They weren’t a bit like the ones Mrs Bird usually served. Even Paddington rarely managed more than two of Mrs Bird’s dumplings.
Having scraped the last of the mixture off his paws Paddington pushed the saucepan lid hard down and scrambled clear. The steam from the saucepan had made his fur go soggy and he sat in the middle of the floor for several minutes getting his breath back and mopping his brow with an old dish-cloth.
It was while he was sitting there, scraping the remains of the dumplings out of his hat and licking the spoon, that he felt something move behind him. Not only that, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a shadow on the floor which definitely hadn’t been there a moment before.
Paddington sat very still, holding his breath and listening. It wasn’t so much a noise as a feeling, and it seemed to be creeping nearer and nearer, making a soft swishing noise as it came. Paddington felt his fur begin to stand on end as there came the sound of a slow plop… plop… plop across the kitchen floor. And then, just as he was summoning up enough courage to look over his shoulder, there was a loud crash from the direction of the stove. Without waiting to see what it was Paddington pulled his hat down over his head and ran, slamming the door behind him.
He arrived in the hall just as there was a loud knock on the front door. To his relief he heard a familiar voice call his name through the letterbox.
“I got your message, Mr Brown—about not being able to come for elevenses this morning,” began Mr Gruber, as Padddington opened the door, “and I just thought I would call round to see if there was anything I could do…” His voice trailed away as he stared at Paddington.
“Why, Mr Brown,” he exclaimed. “You’re all white! Is anything the matter?”
“Don’t worry, Mr Gruber,” cried Paddington, waving his paws in the air. “It’s only some of Mrs Bird’s flour. I’m afraid I can’t raise my hat because it’s stuck down with dumpling mixture – but I’m very glad you’ve come because there’s something nasty in the kitchen!”
“Something nasty in the kitchen?” echoed Mr Gruber. “What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know,” said Paddington, struggling with his hat. “But it’s got a shadow and it’s making a funny noise.”
Mr Gruber looked around nervously for something to defend himself with. “We’ll soon see about that,” he said, taking a warming pan off the wall.
Paddington led the way back to the kitchen and then stood to one side by the door. “After you, Mr Gruber,” he said politely.
“Er… thank you, Mr Brown,” said Mr Gruber doubtfully.
He grasped the warming pan firmly in both hands and then kicked open the door. “Come out!” he cried. “Whoever you are!”
“I don’t think it’s a who, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington, peering round the door. “It’s a what!”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr Gruber, staring at the sight which met his eyes. “What has been going on?”
Over most of the kitchen there was a thin film of flour. There was flour on the table, in the sink, on the floor; in fact, over practically everything. But it wasn’t the general state of the room which made Mr Gruber cry out with surprise – it was the sight of something large and white hanging over the side of the stove.
He stared at it for a moment and then advanced cautiously across the kitchen and poked it with the handle of the warming pan. There was a loud squelching noise and Mr Gruber jumped back as part of it broke away and fell with a plop to the floor.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed again. “I do believe it’s some kind of dumpling, Mr Brown. I’ve never seen quite such a big one before,” he went on as Paddington joined him. “It’s grown right out of the saucepan and pushed the lid on to the floor. No wonder it made you jump.”
Mr Gruber mopped his brow and opened the window. It was very warm in the kitchen. “How ever did it get to be that size?”
“I don’t really know, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington, looking puzzled. “It’s one of mine and it didn’t start off that way. I think something must have gone wrong in the saucepan.”
“I should think it has,” said Mr Gruber. “If I were you, Mr Brown, I think I’d turn the cooker off before it catches fire and does any more damage. There’s no knowing what might happen once it gets out of control.
“Perhaps, if you’ll allow me,” he continued tactfully, “I can give you a hand. It must be very difficult cooking for so many people.”
“It is when you only have paws, Mr Gruber,” said Paddington gratefully.
Mr Gruber sniffed. “I must say it all smells very nice. If we make some more dumplings quickly everything else should be just about ready.”
As he handed Paddington the flour and suet Mr Gruber explained how dumplings became very much larger when they were cooked and that it really needed only a small amount of mixture to make quite large ones.
“No wonder yours were so big, Mr Brown,” he said, as he lifted Paddington’s old dumpling into the washing-up bowl. “You must have used almost a bag of flour.”
“Two bags,” said Paddington, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t know what Mrs Bird will say when she hears about it.”
“Perhaps, if we buy her some more,” said Mr Gruber, as he staggered into the garden with the bowl, “she won’t mind quite so much.”
“That’s odd,” said Mr Brown, as he stared out of the bedroom window. “There’s a big white thing suddenly appeared in the garden. Just behind the nasturtiums.”
“Nonsense, Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “You must be seeing things.”
“I’m not,” said Mr Brown, rubbing his glasses and taking another look. “It’s all white and shapeless and it looks horrible. Mr Curry’s seen it too – he’s peering over the fence at it now. Do you know what it is, Paddington?”
“A big white thing, Mr Brown?” repeated Paddington vaguely, joining him at the window. “Perhaps it’s a snowball.”
“In summer?” said Mr Brown suspiciously.
“Henry,” said Mrs Brown. “Do come away from there and decide what you’re having for lunch. Paddington’s gone to a lot of trouble writing out a menu for us.”
Mr Brown
