on his mind. He was acting strangely at breakfast this morning. He didn’t even have a second helping and he kept peering over Mr Brown’s shoulder at the paper with a very odd look on his face.”
“I’m not surprised he had an odd look if it was Henry’s paper,” said Mrs Brown. “I can never make head or tail of it myself.”
Mr Brown worked in the City of London and he always read a very important newspaper at breakfast time, full of news about stocks and shares and other money matters, which the rest of the Browns found very dull.
“All the same,” she continued, as she led the way into the kitchen, “it’s very strange. I do hope he hasn’t got one of his ideas coming on. He spent most of yesterday evening doing his accounts and that’s often a bad sign.”
Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird were hard at work preparing for the coming holiday, and with only a few days left there were a thousand and one things to be done. If they hadn’t been quite so busy they might well have put two and two together, but as it was, the matter of Paddington’s strange behaviour was soon forgotten in the rush to get everything ready.
Unaware of the interest he had caused, Paddington made his way along a road not far from the Portobello market until he reached an imposing building which stood slightly apart from the rest. It had tall, bronze doors which were tightly shut, and over the entrance, in large gold letters, were the words FLOYDS BANK LIMITED.
After carefully making sure that no one was watching, Paddington withdrew a small cardboard-covered book from under his hat and then sat down on his suitcase outside the bank while he waited for the doors to open.
Like the building the book had the words FLOYDS BANK printed on the outside, and just inside the front cover it had P. BROWN ESQ., written in ink.
With the exception of the Browns and Mr Gruber, not many people knew about Paddington’s banking account as it was a closely kept secret. It had all started some months before when Paddington came across an advertisement in one of Mr Brown’s old newspapers which he cut out and saved. In it a very fatherly-looking man smoking a pipe, who said he was a Mr Floyd, explained how any money left with him would earn what he called ‘interest’, and that the longer he kept it the more it would be worth.
Paddington had an eye for a bargain and having his money increase simply by leaving it somewhere had sounded like a very good bargain indeed.
The Browns had been so pleased at the idea that Mr Brown had given him fifty pence to add to his Christmas and birthday money, and after a great deal of thought Paddington had himself added another ten pence which he’d carefully saved from his weekly bun allowance. When all these sums were added together they made a grand total of five pounds and twenty-five pence, and one day Mrs Bird had taken him along to the bank in order to open an account.
For several days afterwards Paddington had hung about in a shop doorway opposite casting suspicious glances at anyone who went in or out. But after having been moved on by a passing policeman he’d had to let matters rest.
Since then, although he had carefully checked the amount in his book several times, Paddington had never actually been inside the bank. Secretly he was rather overawed by all the marble and thick polished wood, so he was pleased when at long last ten o’clock began to strike on a nearby church clock and he was still the only one outside.
As the last of the chimes died away there came the sound of bolts being withdrawn on the other side of the door, and Paddington hurried forward to peer eagerly through the letterbox.
“’Ere, ’ere,” exclaimed the porter, as he caught sight of Paddington’s hat through the slit. “No hawkers ’ere, young feller-me-lad. This is a bank – not a workhouse. We don’t want no hobbledehoys hanging around here.”
“Hobbledehoys?” repeated Paddington, letting go of the letterbox in his surprise.
“That’s what I said,” grumbled the porter as he opened the door. “Breathing all over me knockers. I ’as to polish that brass, yer know.”
“I’m not a hobbledehoy,” exclaimed Paddington, looking most offended as he waved his bank book in the air. “I’m a bear and I’ve come to see Mr Floyd about my savings.”
“Ho, dear,” said the porter, taking a closer look at Paddington. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. When I saw your whiskers poking through me letterbox I mistook you for one of them bearded gentlemen of the road.”
“That’s all right,” said Paddington sadly. “I often get mistaken.” And as the man held the door open for him he raised his hat politely and hurried into the bank.
On several occasions in the past Mrs Bird had impressed on Paddington how wise it was to have money in the bank in case of a rainy day and how he might be glad of it one day for a special occasion. Thinking things over in bed the night before, Paddington had decided that going abroad for a holiday was very much a special occasion, and after studying the advertisement once again he had thought up a very good idea for having the best of both worlds. Like many ideas he had at night under the bedclothes though it didn’t seem quite such a good one in the cold light of day.
Now that he was actually inside the bank, Paddington began to feel rather guilty and he wished he’d consulted Mr Gruber on the matter, for he wasn’t at all sure that Mrs Bird would approve of his taking any money out without first asking her.
Hurrying across to one of the cubbyholes in the counter, Paddington climbed up on his suitcase and peered over the edge. The man on the other side looked rather startled when Paddington’s hat appeared over the top and he reached nervously for a nearby alarm bell.
“I’d like to take out all my savings for a special occasion, please,” said Paddington importantly, as he handed the man his book.
Looking rather relieved, the man took Paddington’s book from him and then raised one eyebrow as he held it up to the light. There were a number of calculations in red ink all over the cover, not to mention blots and one or two rather messy-looking marmalade stains.
“I’m afraid I had an accident with one of my jars under the bedclothes last night,” explained Paddington hastily as he caught the man’s eye.
“One of your jars?” repeated the man. “Under the bedclothes?”
“That’s right,” said Paddington. “I was working out my interest and I stepped back into it by mistake. It’s a bit difficult under the bedclothes.”
“It must be,” said the man distastefully. “Marmalade stains indeed! And on a Floyds bank book!”
He hadn’t been with the branch for very long, and although the manager had told him they sometimes had some very odd customers to deal with nothing had been mentioned about bears’ banking accounts.
“What would you like me to do with it?” he asked doubtfully.
“I’d like to leave all my interest in, please,” explained Paddington. “In case it rains.”
“Well,” said the man in a superior tone of voice as he made some calculations on a piece of paper. “I’m afraid you won’t keep very dry on this. It only comes to ten pence.”
“What!”
