THE STOLEN WHISTLE
WILLIAM had been to watch the sheep dog trials at a neighbouring Agricultural Show and had been much thrilled by the spectacle. It had seemed, moreover, perfectly simple. Just a dog and some sheep and anyone could do it. He had a dog, of course—Jumble, his beloved mongrel who had filled many and various rôles since he had joined William’s ménage. He had been a walking dog and a dancing dog and a talking dog. He had even on one occasion represented a crowd in a play organised by William. It cannot be claimed that Jumble brought any great brilliance to bear on the fulfilment of these rôles. He was essentially passive, rather than active, in his representation of them. He walked and danced perforce, because William on these occasions held his front paws and he could do nothing else. His “talking” was his natural reaction of excitement to William’s softly whispered “rats!” It did not really represent that almost superhuman intelligence that William claimed for it. Jumble himself took no pride in his accomplishments. When he heard the word “trick” he slunk off as quickly as he could, but if escape were impossible he yielded to the inevitable, and suffered the humiliation of walking or dancing with an air of supercilious boredom.
After breakfast on the morning after the sheep trials, William walked slowly and thoughtfully into the garden. There he was greeted effusively by Jumble who tried to convey to him by barks and leaps and whirlwind rushes that it was just the morning for a walk in the wood, where perhaps—perhaps—with luck one might meet a rabbit or two. But William was not in a rabbit mood. He was in a sheep dog mood. He had definitely decided to train Jumble to be a sheep dog. It might be objected that with truth Jumble was not a sheep dog, to which objection it might with equal truth be replied that Jumble was as much a sheep dog as he was any other sort of dog. The sorts of dog in Jumble were so thoroughly mixed that there was no sort of dog you could definitely say he wasn’t. William had decided to use a whistle for giving his signals to Jumble chiefly because his newest and dearest treasure happened to be a whistle. It had been sent to him for his last birthday, by an uncle who, as William’s father bitterly remarked, ought to have known better. It was not an ordinary whistle. It was the Platonic ideal of a whistle. It was very large and very ornate and emitted a sound rivalled only by a factory siren. William to the relief and surprise of his family had made little use of this since his reception of it. He had kept it in a box in a drawer in his bedroom. His family fondly imagined that he had forgotten about it and never allowed the conversation even remotely to approach the subject of musical instruments in general or whistles in particular, lest it should remind him of it. They could not know, of course, that William’s whistle was his secret pride and joy and dearest treasure and that he did not use it simply because he considered it too precious to use till some great and worthy occasion presented itself. And here the great and worthy occasion had presented itself—the training of Jumble to be a sheep dog. With Jumble bounding about in innocent glee and all unaware of his coming ordeal, he entered his bedroom and reverently took the whistle from its bed of cotton wool in the box in which he had received it. Then he placed it in his pocket and with Jumble still leaping exuberantly about him went out into the road. He had now a dog and a whistle. The only thing that remained was to find some sheep. He swung down the road, one hand fingering lovingly the whistle that reposed in his pocket, his eyes fixed proudly on Jumble. Jumble, who fondly imagined that his hint about the walk in a rabbity wood had been taken, leapt ecstatically into the air at every passing fly or butterfly and as often as not overbalanced in the process. The very word “trick” would have sent him slinking homeward, his tail between his legs, but no one uttered the fateful word so Jumble leapt and bounded in light-hearted glee with no thought in his mind but of scurrying white-tailed rabbits.
William was now walking along without paying much attention to his pet. His mind was set on other things. He was looking for sheep. Suddenly he saw them—a whole fieldful of sheep with no guardian or owner in sight. He brightened. The training of Jumble as a sheep dog could begin. With Jumble still at his heels he entered the field.
“Now, Jumble,” he said sternly, “when I blow one blow on this whistle you drive ’em to the end of the field an’ when I blow two you drive ’em back again.” Jumble gave a short sharp bark, which William, ever optimistic, took to be one of complete understanding.
William drew in his breath then blew a piercing blast on his whistle. The nightmare sound rent the air. A sheep who was cropping grass turned and gazed at him reproachfully. The others took no notice. Jumble continued to chase butterflies. William sighed and repeated his instructions.
“When I blow once on this whistle, Jumble, you drive ’em over there and when I blow twice you drive ’em back.” Jumble wagged his tail and William thought he’d really tumbled to it at last.
He blew again—a mighty piercing blast. The sheep who had looked at him reproachfully turned and looked at him still more reproachfully. Jumble, upon whose mind the conviction was slowly forcing itself that something was being expected of him, sat up and begged.
William sighed.
“No, Jumble,” he said, “jus’ listen—when I blow once——”