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“Because they’re good watchdogs,” said Kitty. “They don’t let anybody skulk about.”
“I wasn’t skulking!”
Penelope looked at Jip and Jum. Had they eaten a goat? That would not do. It would, in fact, be a serious problem. “Wait here,” she said.
Whitfield set the stick down and followed. The light was dim inside the barn, but when she peered into the stall where Jip and Jum slept, Penelope glimpsed a patch of white. Heart sinking, she went closer. A small spotted goat, perhaps four months old, gazed placidly up at her. When she stepped nearer, it stood and came to meet her, sniffing at her outstretched fingers. Whitfield’s horse looked on from the next stall, benignly curious.
Penelope ran her hands over the little animal and found no hurt.
“What is it doing in here?” asked Whitfield.
“I have no idea.” She picked up the goat and carried it out into the yard.
“I told you,” cried Sam as soon as she appeared.
Jip and Jum jumped up and came to push at her legs, as if to herd her back into the barn. As an experiment, Penelope set the goat down. Immediately, the hounds’ attention turned to the little creature, pushing at it to go inside. The goat butted playfully at them in return as it complied.
With Whitfield once again at her heels, Penelope followed the three into the barn and watched Jip and Jum chivy the goat into the stall and resettle it. They then lay down on either side, tongues lolling, looking quite pleased with themselves. She turned to find that Kitty and Sam had joined them. “What’re they about?” asked Sam.
“They seem to have adopted a goat,” replied Whitfield.
The boy gaped up at him. “Adopted?”
“Like a stray pup you find in the street?” asked Kitty.
Sam shook his head. “I never heerd of such a thing in all my born days.”
“Neither have I,” answered Whitfield. “But I believe the evidence is before us.”
They all gazed at the three animals.
“They can’t keep it,” said Sam. “I got to get it away from them.” He stepped closer, eliciting a deep growl from Jip.
Penelope put out a hand to stop the boy. “Wait.”
“They stole it,” he protested.
“I wonder if there’s some strain of collie or sheepdog in their bloodlines,” said the viscount.
Penelope met his gaze. His eyes were dancing. She was also suppressing a laugh.
“Them are foxhounds,” said Sam. “They ain’t supposed to do no herding. And I’ll be in trouble over that goat. I got to have it back.” He moved toward the stall. Both dogs rose and growled.
“Perhaps your master would sell it to me instead,” said Penelope. She ignored a choking sound from Whitfield. “He does sell goats sometimes, doesn’t he?”
“Now and then.” Sam couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the stall. “But you’re saying you’ll buy a goat for your dogs? That’s daft.” He ducked his head. “Begging your pardon, miss.”
“When you put it that way, it does sound odd,” Whitfield said.
“So let’s not put it that way,” replied Penelope. “Just ask your master what price he wants, will you, Sam?”
After a bit more staring, Sam went off to inquire. “You wouldn’t think Jip and Jum would like those devil eyes,” said Kitty. “What are they going to do with a goat?”
“My question exactly,” said Whitfield, his voice brimming with humor.
“I wonder, rather, why they added the creature to the things that they guard,” replied Penelope, contemplating the new member of her household. The goat’s eyes were indeed very different from the steady brown regard of the dogs.
“They recognized it as their own,” said her guest.
