deavors to obtain a
good position. And well they might; for about to begin was the finest
exhibition of sheep-handling any man there was ever to behold.

* * * * *

Evan Jones and Little Pip led off.

Those two, who had won on many a hard-fought field, worked together
as they had never worked before. Smooth and swift, like a yacht in
Southampton Water; round the flag, through the gap, they brought their
sheep. Down between the two flags--accomplishing right well that awkward
turn; and back to the bridge.

There they stopped: the sheep would not face that narrow way. Once,
twice, and again, they broke; and each time the gallant little Pip, his
tongue out and tail quivering, brought them back to the bridge-head.

At length one faced it; then another, and--it was too late. Time was up.
The judges signalled; and the Welshman called off his dog and withdrew.

Out of sight of mortal eye, in a dip of the ground, Evan Jones sat down
and took the small dark head between his knees--and you may be sure the
dog's heart was heavy as the man's. "We did our pest, Pip," he cried
brokenly, "but we're peat--the first time ever we've been!"

* * * * *

No time to dally.

James Moore and Owd Bob were off on their last run.

No applause this time; not a voice was raised; anxious faces; twitching
fingers; the whole crowd tense as a stretched wire. A false turn, a
wilful sheep, a cantankerous judge, and the gray dog would be beat. And
not a man there but knew it.

Yet over the stream master and dog went about their business never
so quiet, never so collected; for all the world as though they were
rounding up a flock on the Muir Pike.

The old dog found his sheep in a twinkling and a wild, scared trio they
proved. Rounding the first flag, one bright-eyed wether made a dash
for the open. He was quick; but the gray dog was quicker: a splendid
recover, and a sound like a sob from the watchers on the hill.

Down the slope they came for the gap in the wall. A little below the
opening, James Moore took his stand to stop and turn them; while a
distance behind his sheep loitered Owd Bob, seeming to follow rather
than drive, yet watchful of every movement and anticipating it. On he
came, one eye on his master, the other on his sheep; never hurrying
them, never flurrying them, yet bringing them rapidly along.

No word was spoken; barely a gesture made; yet they worked, master