Riddle Gully Runaway by Jen Banyard Page B

good. If anyone sees us we don’t want you —’
    â€˜â€” to be turned into C-H-O-P-S!’ giggled Will, to a glare from Pollo.
    Baa-aa-aa-aah!
    â€˜We’ll need to do something about that bleating of his, too,’ said Will, adding a daub of black paint to Shorn Connery’s nose.
    Pollo leaned close to Shorn Connery and looked him in the eye. ‘You’ll have to be quiet as a mouse!’ she whispered. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’
    Baa-aa-aa-aah!
    â€˜Hmm,’ said Will. ‘What about this?’ He stood and took a deep breath.
Woo-woo-woo-woof!
    Pollo swung around, sprawling onto her backside, her head spinning, searching.
    Will grinned. ‘Barking — it’s my specialty. I used to sneak up and get Angela with it all the time. If Shorn Connery bleats at the wrong moment I can bark in sync with him!’
    â€˜It could come in handy!’ said Pollo.
    â€˜Maybe,’ said Will. He applied a final spot to Shorn Connery’s tail. ‘All done. We’re good to go.’
    â€˜Brilliant!’ Pollo helped Will shrug into his backpack, still loaded with Shorn Connery’s fleece. With stippled clouds wisping across the moon, the girl, the boy and the oddly-shaped Dalmatian set off up the road.
    *
    Pollo, Will and Shorn Connery approached the abattoir through the ghostly moon-shadows of the avenue of eucalyptus trees. Pollo and Will tiptoed up a short flight of steps onto the unloading dock platform. From there, at sheep-truck height, a wooden ramp ran steeply down to the dirt of the holding pens next to the slaughterhouse. The closer pen was still empty — just a stretch of trampled sand and animal droppings. In the second pen, grey moonlight bounced off the backs of the huddled sheep. Somewhere unseen, the guard dog barked once, perhaps at an owl or a rat.
    â€˜Is it time?’ whispered Pollo.
    Will nodded and shouldered off his backpack. He unzipped it and brought out the tightly packed hessian bag containing Shorn Connery’s fleece, sewn shut by Mr Mallard. Pollo flicked at the string with her pen-knife and the fleece sprang forth, surrounding their feet like overflowing soap suds. They eased it into two halves, its smooth lanolin greasing their fingers, the buttery smell of it filling their nostrils.
    â€˜You first,’ said Will.
    Pollo plunged both fists into one of the piles and draped it over her head and shoulders. ‘How do I look?’
    â€˜Like a sheep that’s had a very bad night’s sleep.’ Will pinched his nose, trying not to laugh.
    â€˜Now you,’ said Pollo.
    Will did the same. The fleece bunched over his head and spilled down his back.
    â€˜I’d give anything to have my camera with me right now!’ chuckled Pollo. She picked up some scraps of wool from the platform. ‘We should tuck these into our pockets. The more wool we’ve got on us, the more that guard dog will be thrown off our scent.’
    When they finished they looked like a cross between giant chickens and Abominable Snowmen.
    â€˜We don’t look much like sheep,’ said Will.
    â€˜No, but we sure smell like them!’
    Shorn Connery, resplendent in his spots, stared up at them, looking puzzled.
Baa-aa-aah!
    â€˜Shsh!’ said Pollo. ‘It’s only a loan, old buddy. As soon as we find Ear and get her out of here we’ll —’
    Meh-eh-eh!
    Shorn Connery stood stiff, his ears pricked forward, sniffing the air. Pollo and Will looked at one another.
    Baa-aa-aah!
    Meh-eh-eh!
    Suddenly Shorn Connery shot away. He clattered down the ramp and pelted across the empty expanse of the first pen, his rope lead bouncing behind him. Charging at full speed, he bounded high over the metal bars separating him from the next pen — and Ear. For a flash, Pollo and Will saw his spotty figure sailing in the moonlight, and then … nothing. The mob of sheep made way for him, then closed together,