Conker. Michael Morpurgo

on>

      

      CONKER

      MICHAEL MORPURGO

      Illustrated by

      Petra Brown

      EGMONT

       We bring stories to life

      This edition first published in Great Britain 2011

      by Egmont UK Ltd

      239 Kensington High Street, London W8 6SA

      Text copyright © Michael Morpurgo 1987

      Illustrations copyright © Petra Brown 2011

      The author and illustrator have asserted their moral rights.

      ISBN 978 1 4052 5639 1

      A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

      Printed in Singapore.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

      stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

      electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the

      prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      eISBN 978 1 7803 1171 5

      Contents

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

      R

      e

      d

      B

      a

      n

      a

      n

      a

      s

      Chapter One

      Most dogs have one name, but Pooch had

       three – one after the other. Pooch was what

       Grandma called him in the first place . But

       when Nick was a toddler he couldn’t say

       Pooch very well and so Pooch soon became

       Pooh.

      Then one day Pooh heard the rattle of the

      milk bottles outside and came bounding out

      of the house to say hello to the milkman – he

      liked the milkman. But today it was a different

      one. Pooh prowled around him sniffing at the

      bottom of his trousers. The new milkman went

      as white as his milk. Nick tried to drag Pooh

      back into the house, but he wouldn’t come.

      ‘’S’like a wolf,’ said the milkman, putting his

       hands on his head and backing down the path.

       ‘You ought to chain it up.’

      ‘Not a wolf,’ Nick said. ‘He’s an old station.’

      ‘A what?’ said the milkman.

      ‘An old station,’ Nick said. ‘Pooh is an old

       station.’ At that moment Grandma came to

       the door.

      ‘Nick gets his words muddled sometimes,’

      she said. ‘He’s only little. I think he means an

      Alsatian, don’t you, dear? Old Station! Old

      Station! You are a funny boy, Nick.’ And she

      laughed so much that she nearly

      cried. So from that day

      Pooh was called

      Old Station.

      There were

      always just the

      three of them in

      the house. Nick

      had lived with

      Grandma for as

      long as he could

      remember.

      She looked after Nick, and Old Station looked

       after them both.

      Everywhere they went Old Station went with

      them. ‘Don’t know what we’d do without him,’

      Grandma would say.

      All his life Old Station had been like a big

      brother to Nick. Nick was nine years old now.

       He had watched Old Station grow old as he

       grew up. The old dog moved slowly these

       days, and when he got up in the morning to

       go outside you could see it was a real effort.

       He would spend most of the day asleep in his

       basket, dreaming his dreams.

      Nick watched him that morning as he ate his

      cornflakes before he went off to school. It was

      the last day before half-term. Old Station was

      growling in his sleep as he often did and his

      whiskers were twitching.

      ‘He’s chasing cats in his dreams,’ said Grandma.

      ‘Hurry up, Nick, else you’ll be late.’ She gave him

      his satchel and packed lunch, and Nick called out

      ‘Goodbye’ to Old Station and ran off down

      the road.

      It was a windy

      autumn morning

      with the leaves

      falling all around

      him. Before he got

      to school he caught

      twenty-six