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First published in Great Britain
by William Collins Sons and Co. Ltd. in 1979
This edition first published by Collins in 1999
This edition published in 2018
Collins is an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
Visit our HarperCollins Children’s Books website at: www.harpercollinschildrensbooks.co.uk
Text copyright © Michael Bond 1979
Illustrations copyright © Peggy Fortnum
and William Collins Sons and Co. Ltd. 1979
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
The author and illustrator assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.
Cover illustration adapted and coloured by Mark Burgess from the original by Peggy Fortnum
Source ISBN: 9780006753780
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007461493
Version: 2019-05-24
Contents
Copyright
1. Paddington at the Wheel
2. In and Out of Trouble
3. Paddington and the Stately Home
4. Paddington and ‘Bob–a–Job’
5. Paddington Gets a Rise
6. Mr Curry Lets Off Steam
7. Pantomime Time
About the Author
Other books by Michael Bond
About the Publisher
Chapter One PADDINGTON AT THE WHEEL
Paddington gave the man facing him one of his hardest stares ever. “I’ve won a bookmark!” he exclaimed hotly. “But I thought it was going to be a Rolls-Royce.”
The man fingered his collar nervously. “There must be some mistake,” he replied. “The lucky winner of the car has already been presented with it. And the second prize, a weekend for two in Paris, has gone to an old age pensioner in Edinburgh. If you’ve had a letter from us, then you must be one of the ten thousand runners-up who merely receive bookmarks. I can’t think why one wasn’t enclosed.”
“I’m one of ten thousand runners-up?” repeated Paddington, hardly able to believe his ears.
“I’m afraid so.” Regaining his confidence, the man began rummaging in one of his desk drawers. “The trouble is,” he said meaningly, “so many entrants to competitions don’t bother to read the small print. If you care to take another look at our entry form you’ll see what I mean.”
Paddington took the leaflet and focused his gaze on a picture of a large, sleek, silver-grey car. A chauffeur, standing beside one of the open doors, was flicking an imaginary speck of dust from the upholstery with one of his gloves, while across the bonnet, in large red letters, were the words ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS!
Having slept with an identical picture under his pillow at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens for several weeks, Paddington felt he knew it all by heart. He turned it over and on the back were the same instructions for entering the competition, together with an entry form.
“Now look inside,” suggested the man. Paddington did as he was told, and as he did so his face fell. He’d been so excited by the picture of the Rolls-Royce he hadn’t bothered to look any further, but as he pulled the pages apart he found it opened out into a larger sheet. On the left-hand side there was a picture of a French gendarme pointing towards a distant view of the Eiffel Tower, and on the right, under the heading TEN THOUSAND CONSOLATION PRIZES TO BE WON, there was a picture of a bookmark, followed by a lot of writing.
By the end of the page some of the print was so small Paddington began to wish he’d brought his opera glasses with him, but there was no escaping the fact that the bookmark had an all-too-familiar look about it. One exactly like it had arrived that very morning in the envelope containing news of his success.
“I don’t think a bookmark is much consolation for not winning a Rolls-Royce!” he exclaimed. “I put mine down the waste disposal. I didn’t think it was a prize.”
“Oh dear!” The man gave a sympathetic cluck as he riffled through a pile of papers on his desk to show the interview was at an end. “How very unfortunate. Still, at least you’ve had the benefit of eating some of our sun-kissed currants.” He opened one of his desk drawers again and took out a packet. “Have some more as a present,” he said.
“But I don’t even like currants!” exclaimed Paddington bitterly. “And I ate fifteen boxes of them!”
“Fifteen?” The man gazed at Paddington with new respect. “May I ask what your slogan was?”
“A currant a day,” said Paddington hopefully, “keeps the
