With a scurry and flurry he bounded out of the box. But Mr Smifkins was waiting and grabbed him by a hind leg as he tried to dart past.

“I’ve got you! I’ve got you!” he yelled. “You bad young turnip!”

Blinky was too angry to be frightened any longer. He turned like lightning and bit Mr Smifkins on the arm, at the same time clawing and scratching for all he was worth.

“A nice kettle of fish, you are!” Mr Smifkins cried. “Just wait a moment my boy, and we’ll soon settle this argument.”

With one hand firmly holding Blinky’s hind leg he managed with the other to take off his pyjama trousers. Wrapping them tightly round Blinky, he crawled out of the fowl-house with a struggling, kicking bundle under his arm.

He did look funny, as he walked away, his shirt-tails flapping behind him and his pyjama coat torn in patches.

Blinky kicked and kicked; but it was useless. He was held a prisoner. Goodness knows what would happen now. Perhaps he would be made into rabbit pie as wise old Mr Owl said.

Mr Smifkins stumped home with a very determined step, saying the most frightful things all the time. He hammered on the back door.

“Who’s there?” Mrs Smifkins called.

“Open the door at once!” her husband replied. “I’ve caught the burglar!”

“Has he any guns on him?” she asked in a frightened voice.

“No! but he’s got claws like a tiger,” Mr Smifkins replied.

“We can’t keep a tiger here!” his wife screamed. “Shoot him! Kill him quickly.”

“Open the door!” Mr Smifkins roared. “I’m catching cold in the legs.”

Very slowly the door opened an inch or two and Mrs Smifkins peered out with one eye.

“Where’s the tiger?” she asked trembling.

“Here he is!” said Mr Smifkins, pushing the door wide open with his foot and holding up the struggling bundle.

“Whatever is it?” Mrs Smifkins asked, her eyes wide with amazement.

“A young bear, and a very lively one, too!” her husband replied as he walked into the kitchen and carefully placed the bundle on the floor.

“Oh, how beautiful!” Mrs Smifkins cried. “I’ll have him for a pet.”

“Will you!” Blinky thought to himself as he struggled to get free.

“He’s as fat as a young pig,” Mr Smifkins remarked as he untied the pyjama trousers.

“Good heavens! He’s in knickerbockers,” Mrs Smifkins cried. “He must belong to some child.”

At last Blinky was free. He looked a sorry sight. Torn bockers, fur all rumpled, and straw and egg sticking all over him.

“I’ll give the poor little thing a bath!” said kind Mrs Smifkins.

“Indeed you won’t,” thought Blinky, as he darted away under the table.

“I don’t think it would be wise to bath him tonight,” Mr Smifkins advised. “Wait till the morning and we’ll have a good clean up then.”

“Where will he sleep?” Mrs Smifkins then asked. “Will I take him in my bed? Or perhaps he’d be happier in yours, as he knows you better.”

“To billy-o with the bed!” said Mr Smifkins. “Look what he’s done to mine already.”

“Well, I’ll find a nice little box and he can stay here by the stove. That’ll keep him warm and comfy,” said Mrs Smifkins.

“That’s a good idea,” said Mr Smifkins.

So a box was placed by the stove with an old jacket in it to keep Blinky warm. But, he had been watching preparations carefully, and had made up his mind that no box would be his bed, as the last box caused him to be caught. He looked all round the kitchen trying to find some way of escape, but there seemed to be none. The window was closed and the door also.

“Come to your bed, little bear,” called Mrs Smifkins kindly.

Blinky only grunted savagely and glared at her.

“Leave the little chap alone, he’ll find his way into the box when we put the light out.” So Mr Smifkins and his wife said good night to Blinky, turned out the lamp, closed the door again and were gone.

“Thank goodness!” sighed Blinky. “Now I can explore.” He waited till his little heart stopped pounding so loudly, then softly crept from under the table, There was the box, all cosy and warm. Blinky took one look at it, growled, and walked around the kitchen to see if there was a way of escape.

“Yes!” he thought, as he came to a door not quite shut, “here’s where I escape.”

Pushing his little fat body through the opening he was disappointed to find himself in another room, much smaller, with rows and rows of shelves running all round it.

“Looks like a shop!” he said to himself. “I’ll find out what’s in here.”

Climbing on a chair he stood on tiptoe and had a good look all round.

There were dozens of jars of jam and preserves, boxes with lids on, bags filled with things, and piles of apples and oranges.

He sniffed an orange, and felt it with his paw. “Don’t like the smell of it,” he thought, then finding he could squeeze himself on to the shelf, he had a look at the bottles of jam.

Plum, apricot, orange, peach, loganberry, pineapple, and melon. Each bottle was labelled. But Blinky did not stop to read the name — he did not know the meaning anyhow.