grass were lumps of wool torn from others.
Most dreadful of all, in the middle of the field, the worriers had brought down a ewe, which lay on its side feebly kicking at them as they growled and tugged at it.
On the day when the rustlers had come, Babe had felt a mixture of fear and anger. Now he knew nothing but a blind rage, and he charged flat out at the two dogs, grunting and snorting with fury. Nearest to him was the smaller dog, a kind of mongrel terrier, which was snapping at one of the ewe's hindlegs, deaf to everything in the excitement of the worry.
Before it could move, Babe took it across the back and flung it to one side, and the force of his rush carried him on into the bigger dog and knocked it flying.
This one, a large black crossbred, part collie, part retriever, was made of sterner stuff than the terrier, which was already running dazedly away; and it picked itself up and came snarling back at the pig. Perhaps, in the confusion of the moment, it thought that this was just another sheep that had somehow found courage to attack it; but if so, it soon knew
better, for as it came on, Babe chopped at it with his terrible pig's bite, the bite that grips and tears, and now it was not sheep's blood that was spilled.
Howling in pain, the black dog turned and ran, his tail between his legs. He ran, in fact, for his life, an open- mouthed bristling pig hard on his heels.
The field was clear, and Babe suddenly came back to his senses. He turned and hurried to the fallen ewe, round whom, now that the dogs had gone, the horrified flock was beginning to gather in a rough circle. She lay still now, as Babe stood panting by her side, a draggled side where the worriers had pulled at it, and suddenly he realised. It was Ma!
'Ma!' he cried. 'Ma! Are you all right?'
She did not seem too badly hurt. He could not see any gaping wounds, though blood was coming from one ear where the dogs had bitten it.
The old ewe opened an eye. Her voice, when she spoke, was as hoarse as ever, but now not much more than a whisper.
'Hullo, young un', she said.
Babe dropped his head and gently licked the ear to try to stop the bleeding, and some blood stuck to his snout.
'Can you get up?' he asked.
For some time Ma did not answer, and he looked anxiously at her, but the eye that he could see was still open.
'I don't reckon', she said.
'It's all right, Ma', Babe said. 'The wolves have gone, far away'.
'Far, far, fa-a-a-a-a-ar!' chorused the flock.
'And Fly and the boss will soon be here to look after you'.
Ma made no answer or movement. Only her ribs jumped to the thump of her tired old heart.
'You'll be all right, honestly you will', said Babe.
'Oh ar', said Ma, and then the eye closed and the ribs jumped no more.
'Oh Ma!' said Babe, and 'Ma! Ma! Ma-a-a-a-a-a!' mourned the flock, as the Land Rover came up the lane.
Farmer Hogget had heard nothing of the worrying - the field was too far away, the wind in the wrong direction - but he had been anxious, and so by now had Fly, because Pig was nowhere to be found.
The moment they entered the field both man and dog could see that something was terribly wrong. Why else was the flock so obviously distressed, panting and gasping and dishevelled? Why had they formed that ragged circle, and what was in the middle of it? Farmer Hogget strode forward, Fly before him parting the ring to make way, only to see a sight that struck horror into the hearts of both.
There before them lay a dead ewe, and bending over it was the pig, his snout almost touching the outstretched neck, a snout, they saw, that was stained with blood.
Chapter 9
'Was it Babe?'
'Go home, Pig!' said Farmer Hogget in a voice that was so quiet and cold that Babe hardly recognised it. Bewildered, he trotted off obediently, while behind him the farmer picked up the dead ewe and carried it to the Land Rover. Then with Fly's help he began the task of rescuing those sheep that were caught or stuck, and of making sure that no others were badly hurt. This done, he left Fly to guard the flock, and drove home.
Back at the farm, Babe felt simply very very sad. The sky was still cloudless, the air still crisp, but this was a very different pig from the one that had cantered carefree up the hill not half an hour ago. In those thirty minutes he had seen naked fear and cruelty and death, and now to cap it all, the boss was angry with him, had sent him home in some sort of disgrace. What had he done wrong? He had only done his duty, as a good sheep-pig should. He sat in the doorway of the stables and watched as the Land Rover drove into the yard, poor Ma's head lolling loosely over the back. He saw the boss get out and go into the house, and then, a few minutes later, come out again, carrying something in the crook of one arm, a long thing, a kind of black shiny tube, and walk towards him.
'Come, Pig', said Farmer Hogget in that same cold voice, and strode past him into the stables, while at the same moment, inside the farmhouse, the telephone began to ring, and then stopped as Mrs Hogget picked it up.
Obediently Babe followed the farmer into the dark interior. It was not so dark however that he could not see clearly that the boss was pointing the black shiny tube at him, and he sat down again and waited, supposing that perhaps it was some machine for giving out food and that some quite unexpected surprise would come out of its two small round mouths, held now quite close to his face.
At that instant Mrs Hogget's voice sounded across the yard, calling her husband's name from the open kitchen window. He frowned, lowered the shiny tube, and poked his head around the stable door.
'Oh there you are!' called Mrs Hogget. 'What dost think then, that was the police that was, they'm ringing every farmer in the district to warn 'em, there's sheep-worrying dogs about, they killed six sheep t'other side of the valley only last night, they bin seen they have, two of 'em 'tis, a big black un and a little brown un, they say to shoot 'em on sight if you do see 'em, you better get back up the hill and make sure ours is all right, d'you want me to fetch your gun?'
'No', said Farmer Hogget. 'It's all right', he said.
He waited till his wife had shut the window and disappeared, and then he walked out into the sunlight with Babe following.
'Sit, Pig', he said, but now his voice was warm and kindly again.
He looked closely at the trusting face turned up to his, and saw, sticking to the side of Babe's mouth, some hairs, some black hairs, and a few brown ones too.
He shook his head in wonder, and that slow grin spread over his face.
'I reckon you gave them summat to worry about', he said, and he broke the gun and took out the cartridges. Meanwhile Fly, standing guard up in the far field, was terribly agitated. She knew of course that some dogs will attack sheep, sometimes even the very dogs trained to look after them, but surely not her sheep-pig? Surely Babe could not have done such a thing? Yet there he had been at the centre of that scene of chaos, bloodstained and standing over the dead ewe! What would the boss do to him, what perhaps had he already done? Yet she could not leave these fools to find out.
At least though, she suddenly realised, they could tell her what had happened, if the shock hadn't driven what little sense they had out of their stupid heads. Never before in her long life had Fly sunk to engaging a sheep in conversation. They were there to be ordered about, like soldiers, and, like soldiers, never to answer back. She approached the nearest one, with distaste, and it promptly backed away from her.
'Stand still, fool!' she barked. 'And tell me who chased you. Who killed that old one?'
'Wolf', said the sheep automatically.
Fly growled with annoyance. Was that the only word the halfwits knew? She put the question
