William The Outlaw (18 page)

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 that 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
—’

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.

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?’

William did not explain that he was trying to teach Jumble to be a sheep dog. He withdrew himself and Jumble and the whistle out of harm’s way as quickly as possible.

He knew that it would be useless to continue the training of Jumble within earshot of his father. It would be safer to withdraw to the other end of the village where there was no possibility of
his father hearing it. It was particularly annoying because he’d thought that just before his father came out Jumble really had begun to understand what he wanted him to do. He slipped the
whistle into his pocket and set off down the road, Jumble following merrily at his heels. Jumble evidently thought that the walk through the rabbity wood was going to come off at last.

Right at the end of the village was a large brown house with a field behind it. The field was empty and well hidden from the road. Here William decided to complete the training of Jumble. Armed
with a little pile of stones and his whistle he patiently threw stones and whistled his one blast then his two as Jumble departed and returned. Jumble was fetching the stones in a perfunctory
fashion as one who does it merely to oblige. His considered opinion was that as a game it was going on a bit too long. It was in any case rather a puerile amusement for a dog who alone and unaided
could put to flight great hordes of large white animals. And he wanted to have a go at those rabbits.

William really thought that Jumble knew what was expected of him at last. He decided to try without the stones. It was a great moment. He blew a single blast on his whistle and then waited to
see if Jumble would fly at the note of command to the other end of the field. William never knew whether Jumble would have flown at the note of command to the other end of the field; it is a
question that must remain to all eternity unanswered. For no sooner had William emitted the note of command than a furious tornado dressed in a mauve suit tore down upon him, revolving itself as it
became calmer into an elderly gentleman who lived in the brown house.

‘You wretched little mongrel,’ he said addressing William not Jumble, ‘you inhuman young torturer – you – you infant Nero! Do you know, I ask you, sir, that
I’ve been trying to rest – to
rest
with this infernal row going on? What do you mean by it, you young scoundrel? What do you think you’re doing with it – blowing it
on and on and on like that? Are you trying to drive me
mad?

Before William could resist he had snatched the precious whistle from William and thrust it into his pocket. ‘Now I’ve got it, my boy, and I’ll
keep
it. And I’ll
take any other infernal instrument of torture you come around here with – and get out!’

Jumble growled and made ineffective darts towards the old gentleman but finding that the old gentleman did not obligingly turn and flee with bleats of terror like the sheep, he changed his
tactics and wagged his tail propitiatingly. William, aghast and infuriated, tried to gather breath for a reply but before it came the old gentleman’s roseate hue deepened to purple and he
roared again:

‘Get – OUT!’

William with one glance at the purple face threw dignity to the winds and got out, closely followed by the incipient sheep dog. He was ablaze with righteous indignation. He felt that he’d
rather have had anything stolen from him than the precious whistle, his glorious insignia as sheep dog trainer. Stolen – yes, that was it, stolen –
his
whistle
stolen.
The
man in the mauve suit ought to be in prison – a robber, that was what he was – just an ordinary robber. He – he’d go and tell someone about it so that the man in the mauve
suit could be put in prison.