the rivals were well contrasted: the patience, the
insinuating eloquence, combined with the splendid dash, of the one; and
the fierce, driving fury of the other.

The issue was never in doubt. It may have been that the temper of the
Tailless Tyke gave in the time of trial; it may have been that his sheep
were wild, as M'Adam declared; certainly not, as the little man alleged
in choking voice, that they had been chosen and purposely set aside to
ruin his chance. Certain it is that his tactics scared them hopelessly:
and he never had them in hand.

Act for Owd Bob, his dropping, his driving, his penning, aroused the
loud-tongued admiration of crowd and competitors alike. He was patient
yet persistent, quiet yet firm, and seemed to coax his charges in the
right way in that inimitable manner of his own.

When, at length, the verdict was given, and it was known that, after
an interval of half a century, the Shepherds' Trophy was won again by a
Gray Dog of Kenmuir, there was such a scene as has been rarely witnessed
on the slope behind the Dalesman's Daughter.

Great fists were slapped on mighty backs; great feet were stamped on the
sun-dried banks of the Silver Lea; stalwart lungs were strained to their
uttermost capacity; and roars of "Moore!" "Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!" "The
Gray Dogs!" thundered up the hillside, and were flung, thundering, back.

Even James Moore was visibly moved as he worked his way through the
cheering mob; and Owd Bob, trotting alongside him in quiet dignity,
seemed to wave his silvery brush in acknowledgment.

Master Jacky Sylvester alternately turned cart-wheels and felled the
Hon. Launcelot Bilks to the ground. Lady Eleanour, her cheeks flushed
with pleasure, waved her parasol, and attempted to restrain her son's
exuberance. Parson Leggy danced an unclerical jig, and shook hands with
the squire till both those fine old gentlemen were purple in the face.
Long Kirby selected a small man in the crowd, and bashed his hat down
over his eyes. While Tammas, Rob Saunderson, Tupper, Hoppin, Londesley,
and the rest joined hands and went raving round like so many giddy
girls.

Of them all, however, none was so uproarious in the mad heat of his
enthusiasm as David M'Adam. He stood in the Kenmuir wagon beside Maggie,
a conspicuous figure above the crowd, as he roared in hoarse ecstasy:

"Weel done, oor Bob! Weel done, Mr. Moore! Yo've knocked him! Knock him
agin! Owd Bob o' Kenmuir! Moore! Moore o' Kenmuir!