ten did, into his broad Scotch. "I'll do the best I can though,
sir."

"I am sure you will."

And Sandy did do his best!

The hot dip, with the proper proportions of lime and sulphur, was
prepared, and Sandy tested its temperature by seeing if he could bear
his hand in it. Then the long cement troughs were filled. These troughs
were just wide enough so the sheep were not able to turn. Groups of
sheep that had been driven from the larger enclosures to the small pens
near the dipping troughs were then hurried, one by one, to the men
standing at the head of the troughs; it was the duty of these men to
push each sheep in turn down the smooth metal incline into the dip. The
sheep slipped in easily. As they swam along through the steaming bath
other men were posted midway and when a sheep passed they thrust the
head twice under water with their crooks so that the eyes and heads--as
well as the bodies--might be cleansed. At the far end of the troughs
still other herders helped the bedraggled creatures out onto a draining
platform where they dripped for a time and were afterward driven back
into their pens.

"I shouldn't think the sheep would ever dry!" Donald remarked to Sandy
as they watched the process.

"Oh, they do; only it takes a couple of days--and sometimes more before
their wool is thoroughly dry," answered the Scotchman.

Donald looked on, fascinated.

The work proceeded without a hitch.

The sheep were fed into the troughs, hurried on and away, only to give
place to others. Whenever the dip cooled a fresh, hot supply was added.
Within an hour Donald counted a hundred sheep swim their way through the
one trough near which he chanced to be standing.

Sandy McCulloch was everywhere at once--now here, now there, giving
orders. Gladly the herders obeyed him. They all liked Sandy, not only
for his own sake but for the sake of Old Angus, his father, under whom
most of them had worked in years past.

"Sandy's a fine lad!" Donald heard one of the herders say.

"There's not a better on Crescent Ranch!" was the prompt reply from a
grizzled old Mexican who was ducking the heads of the herd that sped
past him.

"He wouldn't make a bad boss of the ranch," murmured another in an
undertone.

[Illustration: "HE WOULDN'T MAKE A BAD BOSS"]

Sandy did not hear them. He was too intent on his work. He went about it
simply, yet with his whole soul. Day after day his cheery voice could
be heard:

"Your dip is cooling,