The new ovine martyr bounded. Quite a patch of its skin had been replaced by blood.
“Steady, Willie, steady!” cried Master Peartree. “Oi was afeared musicianers ain’t no good for shearing.”
“It’s this silly, jumping beast,” growled Will, breaking his obstinate silence.
Jinny was still tendering the bonnet-box to Master Peartree. “Well, give it to him then.”
“Can’t he take it straight?” asked the shepherd, clipping busily.
“That silly, jumping beast is too much for him as it is. He daren’t let go. I’ll leave the bonnet-box for him.”
“Ain’t no place here—’tis too mucky.”
“ ‘Buy a Broom,’ ” hummed Jinny, and young Ravens, smiling, seized a besom and swept vigorously at the stale and droppings. “Oh, I can’t leave it here—the sheep might stave it in,” she said.
“Leave it in the store acrost the yard—the key’s in the padlock,” said the shepherd. “Oi count Willie’ll take it home, same as he ain’t cut hisself to pieces.”
Another roar from the others—this time Master Peartree beamed, and it might have gone ill with Will’s lamb had the shears not slipped from his palm.