Paddington's Finest Hour

Mr. Curry glared at him. “If you must know,” he said, “I’m having trouble with my legs. They weren’t too good in the first place, but with all the wet weather we’ve been having the ground is as rough as can be, so I’m cutting bits off to even things up.”
Paddington nearly fell off the chair in a state of shock at the news. He stared at the Browns’ neighbor. “You’ve been cutting bits off your legs?” he said. “No wonder you’ve been making funny noises.”
“What do you mean, bear?” barked Mr. Curry.
“Well,” said Paddington. “It must be very painful cutting bits off them. Mind you, Mrs. Bird will be pleased. She often says you are too tall for your own good; always looking over the top of our fence to see what’s going on. I expect you could borrow her First Aid box.”

“Bah!” growled Mr. Curry. “I’ll give her First Aid.”
“I don’t think she needs any at the moment,” said Paddington. “She was all right the last time I saw her.”

“I’m glad I didn’t cast any clouts, Mrs. Bird,” he called as the top toggle slipped into place at long last and he set off down the garden path.