Free Escape from Silver Street Farm by Nicola Davies Page B

wee bit on the feisty side. . . .”
    Kenny glared at Karl and Flora from the far end of his stall. He stamped his hooves and lowered his head, ready to charge with his beautiful curving horns. Karl decided that the only way the ram could look more impressive and scary was if he actually had fire coming out of his nostrils.
    “The good thing about horns,” said Flora quietly, “is that that they make good handles.” Then she shook a bucket, and the sheep-food pellets rattled in the bottom.
    Kenny raised his head and sniffed the air. He stopped stamping and walked daintily across the stall to bury his big head in the bucket and munch noisily.
    “That’s a good boy,” said Flora. “OK, Karl. Now!” Gently but very firmly, they each took hold of one of Kenny’s horns. The ram struggled furiously, making Karl’s arm muscles scream for mercy. Then, after a few seconds, Kenny stood still and let Flora slip the halter over his head and secure it around his nose.
    “There you go!” Flora said. “He’s been in so many farm shows, he knows the routine of being on a halter and led about. He’ll give us no more trouble now.”
    Kenny seemed pleased to be outside. He sniffed the wind and immediately set off down the ramp that led from the station platform to the sheep pen on the old train tracks. Karl and Flora didn’t even have to guide the ram to the gap in the fence — he went straight to it, sniffed it carefully, then pushed through. He set off down the towpath and over the footbridge so fast that Karl and Flora had trouble keeping up.
    “We’ll find them in no time!” said Karl.
    “I just hope they’re not in any trouble,” said Flora grimly. “We could do without any bad publicity before the grand opening.”

There was no sign of the turkeys anywhere, just a little whirlpool of feathers dancing in the wind. Meera and Gemma looked at each other, mystified.
    “How can they have just disappeared?” said Meera. “They were here fifteen minutes ago.”
    “There must be some clue we’re missing,” said Gemma. “We’ve got to be like detectives. Come on, let’s check the fences again.”
    The two girls split up and walked around the edge of the turkey pen, looking carefully at every bit of the fence.
    Suddenly Gemma called out, “Hey, look at this!”
    Where the pen bordered on a scrubby wasteland of grasses and brambles, a neat little door had been cut in the tall wire fence at ground level. It had been rejoined so cleverly that you had to look hard to see it. It would take just two or three twists of the wire closing the little door to open up a gap big enough to let a small child in — or ten turkeys out.
    “Maybe someone came through and stole them,” said Meera.
    Gemma shook her head. “They’d have to catch them first, and you know how flighty our turkeys are,” she said. “Flora told me that she heard them making a noise, and when she came out of the office a minute later, they were gone. There just wasn’t time to catch ten turkeys and get them through this hole.”
    “Maybe it was the work of Gobble O Seven, international turkey thief,” Meera joked, but they both knew it wasn’t really funny. A grand opening with missing livestock was no laughing matter. Their only option seemed to be to go through the fence to see if there were more clues.
    The gateway in the fence was smaller than it looked. Meera’s bottom got stuck, and she ripped the seat of her jeans.
    “Huh!” she muttered grumpily. “Well, at least we know we’re looking for small, skinny turkey thieves!”
    On the other side of the fence, there was an old oil drum, and behind that was a tunnel through a tangle of plants. It was a tight squeeze, and Meera kept getting hooked up in brambles as she crawled along behind Gemma on her hands and knees, through a series of cold muddy puddles. The tunnel ran for more than a hundred yards and came out in a graveyard of old train equipment, out of sight from the farm.
    “That’s