Paddington Novels 1-3

I’ll have a sparkler.”
    “Dull things, sparklers,” said Mr Curry, who was sitting in the best chair helping himself to some marmalade sandwiches.
    “If Paddington wants a sparkler, he shall have one,” said Mrs Bird, giving Mr Curry a freezing look.
    Mr Brown handed Paddington the candle, taking care not to let the hot wax drip on to his fur, and there was a round of applause as the sparkler burst into life. Paddington waved it over his head several times and there was another round of applause as he moved it up and down to spell out the letters P-A-D-I-N-G-T-U-N .
    “Very effective,” said Mr Gruber.
    “But that’s not how you spell Paddington,” grumbled Mr Curry, his mouth full of sandwich.
    “It’s how I spell it,” said Paddington. He gave Mr Curry one of his special hard stares, but unfortunately it was dark and so the fulleffect was lost.
    “How about lighting the bonfire?” said Mr Brown hurriedly. “Then we can all see what we’re doing.” There was a crackle from the dried leaves as he bent down to apply the match.
    “That’s better,” said Mr Curry, rubbing his hands together. “I find it rather draughty on this veranda of yours. I think I’ll let off a few more fireworks if there are no more sandwiches left.” He looked across at Mrs Bird.
    “There aren’t,” said Mrs Bird. “You’ve just had the last one. Honestly,” she continued, as Mr Curry moved away and began rummaging in Paddington’s box, “the cheek of some people. And he never even brought so much as a Catherine wheel himself.”
    “He does spoil things,” said Mrs Brown. “Everyone’s been looking forward to this evening. I’ve a good mind…” Whatever Mrs Brown had been about to say was lost as there came a cry from the direction of the garden shed.
    “Crikey, Paddington,” shouted Jonathan. “Why ever didn’t you tell us?”
    “Tell us what?” asked Mr Brown, trying to divide his attention between a Roman candle which had just fizzled out and themysterious object which Jonathan was dragging from the shed.
    “It’s a guy!” shouted Judy with delight.
    “It’s a super one too!” exclaimed Jonathan. “It looks just like a real person. Is it yours, Paddington?”
    “Well,” said Paddington, “yes… and no.” He looked rather worried. In the excitement he had quite forgotten about the guy which he’d used when he’d collected the money for fireworks. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted the others to know about it in case too many questions were asked.
    “A guy!” said Mr Curry. “Then it had better go on the bonfire.” He peered at it through the smoke. For some odd reason there was a familiar look about it which he couldn’t quite place.
    “Oh no,” said Paddington hurriedly. “I don’t think you’d better do that. It’s not really for burning.”
    “Nonsense, bear,” said Mr Curry. “I can see you don’t know much about Guy Fawkes Night. Guys are always burned.” He pushed the others on one side and with the help of Mr Brown’s garden rake placed the guy on top of the bonfire.
    “There!” he exclaimed, as he stood backrubbing his hands. “That’s better. That’s what I call a bonfire.”
    Mr Brown removed his glasses, polished them, and then looked hard at the bonfire. He didn’t recognise the suit the guy was wearing and he was glad to see it wasn’t one of his. All the same, he had a nasty feeling at the back of his mind. “It… it seems a very well-dressed sort of guy,” he remarked.
    Mr Curry started and then stepped forward to take a closer look. Now that the bonfire was well and truly alight it was easier to see. The trousers were blazing merrily and the jacket had just started to smoulder. His eyes nearly popped out and he pointed a trembling finger towards the flames.
    “That’s my suit!” he roared. “My suit! The one you were supposed to send to the cleaners!”
    “What!” exclaimed Mr Brown. Everyone turned to look at Paddington.
    Paddington was as surprised as the others. It was the first he had heard of Mr Curry’s suit. “I found it on the doorstep,” he said. “I thought it had been put out for the rummage sale…”
    “The rummage sale?” cried Mr Curry, almost beside himself with rage. “The rummage sale? My best suit! I’ll… I’ll…” Mr Curry was spluttering so much he couldn’t think of anything to say. But Mrs Bird could.
    “To start with,” she said, “it wasn’t your best suit. It’s been sent to the cleaners at