Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

—so instead I took a calculated risk.
“It wasn’t anybody,” I said, dropping my eyes in
feigned shame. “They’re imaginary.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said his friends were imaginary,” my dad
repeated, sounding worried.
The farmers exchanged baffled glances.
“See?” Worm said, a flicker of hope on his face.
“Kid’s a bloody psycho! It had to be him!”
“I never touched them,” I said, though no one was
really listening.
“It weren’t the American,” said the farmer who had
Worm. He gave Worm’s shirt a wrench. “This one
here, he’s got a history. Few years back I watched
him kick a lamb down a cliffside. Wouldn’t of believed
it if I hadn’t seen it wi’ me own eyes. After he done it I
asked him why. To see if it could fly, he says. He’s a
sickie, all right.”
People muttered in disgust. Worm looked
uncomfortable but didn’t dispute the story.
“Where’s his fishmongerin’ mate?” said Pitchfork.
“If this one was in on it, you can bet the other one was,
too.” Someone said they’d seen Dylan by the harbor,
and a posse was dispatched to collect him.
“What about a wolf—or a wild dog?” my dad said.
“My father was killed by dogs.”
“Only dogs on Cairnholm are sheepdogs,” replied
Knit Cap. “And it ain’t exactly in a sheepdog’s nature
to go about killin’ sheep.”
I wished my father would give it up and leave while
the leaving was good, but he was on the case like
Perry Mason. “Just how many sheep are we talking
about?” he asked.
“Five,” replied the fourth farmer, a short, sour-faced
man who hadn’t spoken until then. “All mine. Killed
right in their pen. Poor devils never even had a
chance to run.”