Part 26 (1/2)

”Of course not,” I said. ”They're idiots.”

”Some of them started taking down the fence, to make it easier to get to their booths and tables,” he said. ”You should have seen how surprised they were when the first few sheep came trotting down the hill. And then when Early showed up with his shotgun and started firing over their heads and yelling about trespa.s.sing ...”

He fell silent and rubbed his face with his hand, as if exhausted. I put an arm around his waist and we stood together for a few moments watching the crowd.

Both sheep and humans were dispersing. The music dissolved into shrieks when a particularly bold sheep trotted up onto the porch, sending the choir members fleeing in all directions.

On the plus side, by evicting the unauthorized bazaar from his field, Mr. Early had convinced many people that the fun was over for the day. Except for the customers lined up at the yard sale checkout, people were mostly heading for their cars.

On the minus side, once they got to their cars, they weren't having much luck departing. Every few yards, you could see a sheep standing on the road, gazing thoughtfully into the distance, seemingly unaware that half-a-dozen cars were lined up behind it, honking their horns and shouting at it. No sooner would one sheep amble off the road than another would saunter out.

But there were really only a small number of sheep playing in traffic. Where had the rest of them gone?

”What are we supposed to do about all this?” Michael said. He wasn't puffing anymore, but he still sounded tired. ”They're incredibly stupid, and trying to get them all to go where you want them to go is nearly impossible, but the minute one of them does something destructive, dangerous, or just annoying, every single one of them goes and does the same d.a.m.ned thing.”

”All true,” I said. ”But we can't do anything about the people, so let's talk about the sheep.”

”I was talking about the sheep,” he said, with a faint ghost of a smile.

”They're a problem, too,” I agreed.

I spotted several of my relatives in the crowd. And, unfortunately, they had spotted me. They were pointing at me and waving, and heading this way. Probably to ask me what I planned to do about the sheep.

”Come on,” I said to Michael. ”I have an idea.”

I strolled over to where Officer Sammy was standing, with Michael in my wake.

”Hey, Sammy,” I said. ”Could you help me with something.”

”I'll sure try,” he said, with his eager, 250-watt smile.

”I figure by now they have Mr. Early down at the station, being arrested or arraigned or whatever.”

”And we need to get our sheep together,” Michael put in.

I winced. Sammy frowned.

”Your sheep?” he said.

”Mr. Early's sheep,” I said, pointing to one of the woolly fugitives that happened to be pa.s.sing by. ”His sheep have escaped their pasture, and we're trying to round them up and put them back.”

”That's good,” Sammy said, nodding.

”Only we have no idea how many of them he has,” I said. ”We can't very well know when we've found them all if we have no idea how many we're looking for.”

”No problem,” Sammy said. ”I'll call down to the station and get a count.”

While Sammy made his way through the throng to his patrol car, I greeted any relatives who came looking for me with orders that they each go and catch a sheep. Preferably several sheep. As I expected, most of them hurried to comply, and the rest, when they realized that I was asking them to work, made themselves scarce.

Fifteen minutes later, Sammy showed up leading a sheep and bearing the news that Mr. Early had two hundred and twenty-one head of sheep.

”And I suppose each of those heads is attached to a separate sheep body,” I said, letting myself slouch against the fence. ”And every blessed one of them is rapidly trotting away in a completely different direction from every other sheep in the flock.”

”On their eight hundred and eighty-four beastly sharp little hooves,” Michael said, rubbing the s.h.i.+n one of the sheep had kicked.

”Only eight hundred and twenty-eight beastly sharp little hooves,” I corrected.

”Did I multiply that wrong?” Michael said, frowning. ”It's been a long day.”

”Your multiplication's fine, but you forgot to subtract the ones we've already caught.”

”That's right,” he said. We both turned to look behind us at the pasture. So far, the combined efforts of our amateur shepherds had only corralled thirteen sheep. Fourteen, with Sammy's contribution. And from what I could see, those fourteen were the fattest, slowest, most sedentary of the flock. Most of their more nimble comrades had already disappeared over various horizons, with or without panting humans in hot pursuit. All except for a small cadre of guerilla sheep who remained lurking near the road, ready to take their turns blocking traffic.

”Fifteen,” Michael said, as Dad and Rob arrived with another sheep to add to the collection.

”Dad,” Rob said, when they'd shoved their catch through the gate. ”My arms itch.”

I glanced over and saw that not only was Rob scratching his arms rather obsessively, but his face had begun to swell.

”Oh, d.a.m.n,” I said.

”Do you suppose Farmer Early sprays some kind of dangerous chemical on his sheep?” Rob asked.

”No,” I said. ”He didn't have to; nature already did.”

”What do you mean?” Dad asked.

”Lanolin,” I said. ”The wool is full of lanolin. Remember how careful Mother had to be when he was a kid? He got hives from even a trace of lanolin.”

Perhaps the wrong thing to say in front of a hypochondriac.

”I can feel my throat closing up,” Rob said, clutching his Adam's apple with one hand while still scratching with the other. ”I'm going to die, aren't I? Killed by a sheep overdose.”

”You've probably outgrown some of your sensitivity,” I said.

”I've got my bag up at the house,” Dad said. ”Come on; I'll give you a shot of antihistamine.”

”Should we call an ambulance?” Michael asked. I noticed that he was scratching his arms, too. And for that matter, so was I. They were starting to itch rather fiercely. Power of suggestion, or was prolonged contact with live lanolin factories bringing out an allergic reaction in those of us who'd never had a problem before?

Dad and Rob had begun trotting toward the house, and most of our volunteer helpers trailed after them. I hoped Dad wouldn't run out of antihistamine, given how many hypochondriacs we had in the family.

Chapter 35.

”Should I go find some more sheep?” Sammy asked.

”Not just yet,” I said. ”Can I borrow your bullhorn?”