He fairly radiated conceit. He couldn’t get over it—hundreds and hundreds of big white things each three times as big as himself flying in panic before him—before him—what a dog! What a dog! He gave William a glance that said:
“Well, what do you think of me, now?”
William could have told him quite adequately and eloquently what he thought of him but already sounds of commotion and shouting came from the direction of the farm whence the errant sheep had been sighted. Already men were running down the road to deal with the crisis. William, not wishing to be dealt with as part of the crisis, hastily picked up Jumble, scrambled through the hedge into a further field and thence by devious routes to the road and back to his home.
His first lesson to Jumble on sheep dogging had not been altogether successful but William was not a boy lightly to abandon anything he had undertaken. Only he thought that perhaps it had been a mistake to begin on sheep. It would be best probably to work up to sheep gradually. Sitting on an upturned plant pot in his back yard, his chin on his hands, he frowningly considered the situation, while Jumble sat by him, leaning against the plant pot wearing a complacent simper, still seeing himself, alone and unaided, putting to flight vast hordes of large white animals. Yes, thought William, that had been the mistake—beginning with sheep instead of working up to them gradually. If he could begin on something small they could work up to sheep by degrees. His white mice—the very thing! He turned and gave Jumble a long and patient detailed account of what he wanted him to do.
“When I blow once, Jumble,” he said, “you run ’em over to the end of the lawn and when I blow twice run ’em back to me again an’ mind you don’t let any of them escape.”
Jumble looked at him foolishly, obviously not even trying to understand and taking for granted that William was singing his praises, telling him that he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw him scattering them far and near. William went to fetch his white mice, leaving Jumble still simpering. He returned and knelt down with the box.
“Now run ’em gentle, Jumble,” he ordered as he released the flock.
But Jumble was in no mood for gentleness. Either he considered it an insult to try to make him a mouse dog instead of a sheep dog or he wished to show William that this was mere child’s play after his late exploit. He’d killed two before William could rescue them. He listened to William’s remarks with polite boredom and watched the subsequent obsequies with alert interest as though marking the spot for future investigation. He then watched the remnants of the flock being carried indoors with an air of wistfulness. He’d have quite liked to have gone on with them. William was not really disheartened. He was sorry of course to lose two of his white mice, but his white mice themselves were capable of filling any gaps in their numbers with such speed and thoroughness that the shortage would not be of long duration. And he was still determined to teach Jumble to be a sheep dog. He ignored Jumble’s attempts to suggest to him again the walk in the rabbity wood (Jumble felt that he’d have simply loved to have a go at rabbits now—he was just in the mood) and sat down again on the upturned plant pot to consider the matter. Perhaps the best thing to do was to train Jumble to be a sheep dog by himself without anything to represent the sheep, and then when Jumble was an expert sheep dog gradually introduce sheep for him to work upon. He’d teach Jumble to go to the other end of the lawn when he blew once and return when he blew twice.
He did this by throwing a stone to the other end of the lawn for Jumble to fetch and blowing once when he threw it and twice when Jumble was ready to bring it back. He hoped that if he did this often enough, Jumble would begin to associate his departure and return with the whistle instead of the stone. When he’d been doing it for about half an hour his father came out wearing an expression of mingled agony and fury.
“If I hear one more sound from that beastly instrument of torture,” he said, “I’ll take it from you and throw it into the fire. Do you know I’ve been trying to sleep this last half hour? What the dickens are you doing sitting there and blowing the thing like that, to all eternity? Are you trying to play a tune?”