He stopped. Jumble was off after another butterfly. It was simply no use talking to Jumble with all those butterflies about. He must make him understand by some other means. He pointed to the sheep.
“Hi, Jumble!” he urged, “at ’em! Rats!”
Jumble looked from William to the sheep, head on one side, ears cocked. His master evidently wanted him to attack those big white things that inhabited the field. But why? They were doing no harm and there was a vein of caution in Jumble that objected to the unnecessary attacking of things three times his size. Still, he didn’t mind showing willing and he needn’t go too near.
With elaborate ostentation of ferocity he began to bark at the nearest sheep, making little leaps and rushes as if to attack it—but keeping all the time a respectful distance.
“Good old Jumble!” encouraged William, “go on at them. Rats!” Jumble, glad to learn from the tone of William’s voice that he was doing the right thing, redoubled his pretence of fury and attack. The nearest sheep with a scared look on its face rose and moved farther away. Jumble’s delight knew no bounds. He had frightened the thing. That big white animal three times his size was afraid of him. Some of his caution deserted him. He advanced again upon the sheep, his sound and fury redoubled. The sheep began to run. In a state of frenzied intoxication Jumble flung himself to the pursuit. Panic broke out among the flock. They rushed hither and thither bleating wildly, with Jumble, who imagined himself a Great Dane at least, pursuing them, barking loudly. William felt gratified. Things were getting a move on at last. Jumble was turning out a really fine sheep dog. Then he blew twice on his whistle.
“Now bring ’em back, Jumble,” he ordered.
But Jumble was deaf and blind to everything but the ecstasy of chasing these large foolish white creatures who did not seem to realise their size who—joy of joys, miracle of miracles!—were afraid of him—of him! The field was a medley of scurrying bleating sheep and leaping, barking, exulting, pursuing, ecstatic Jumble.
“Hi, Jumble!” called William again, “stop it—bring ’em back now.”
But the sheep had found a way of escape and were streaming in a jostling panic-stricken crowd through the gate inadvertently left open by William on to the road where some streamed off in one direction, some in another, still bleating wildly.
Jumble surveyed the empty field. He’d cleared them out, which was evidently what William meant him to do. The place belonged to him and William now. He swaggered up to William and sat down sideways head in the air, mouth open panting.