e far bank; and from the
crowd went up an involuntary burst of applause.

"Ma word!

"Did yo' see that?"

"By gob!"

It was a turn, indeed, of which the smartest team in the galloping
horse-gunners might well have been proud. A shade later, and they must
have overshot the mark; a shade sooner, and a miss.

"He's not been two minutes so far. We're beaten--don't you think so,
Uncle Leggy?" asked Muriel Sylvester, looking up piteously into the
parson's face.

"It's not what I think, my dear; it's what the judges think," the parson
replied; and what he thought their verdict would be was plainly writ on
his face for all to read.

Right on to the centre of the bridge the leading sheep galloped
and--stopped abruptly.

Up above in the crowd there was utter silence; staring eyes; rigid
fingers. The sweat was dripping off Long Kirby's face; and, at the
back, a green-coated bookmaker slipped his note-book in his pocket, and
glanced behind him. James Moore, standing in front of them all, was the
calmest there.

Red Wull was not to be denied. Like his forerunner he leapt on the back
of the hindmost sheep. But the red dog was heavy where the gray was
light. The sheep staggered, slipped, and fell.

Almost before it had touched the water, M'Adam, his face afire and eyes
flaming, was in the stream. In a second he had hold of the struggling
creature, and, with an almost superhuman effort, had half thrown, half
shoved it on to the bank.

Again a tribute of admiration, led by James Moore.

The little man scrambled, panting, on to the bank and raced after sheep
and dog. His face was white beneath the perspiration; his breath came in
quavering gasps; his trousers were wet and clinging to his legs; he was
trembling in every limb, and yet indomitable.

They were up to the pen, and the last wrestle began. The crowd, silent
and motionless, craned forward to watch the uncanny, white-haired little
man and the huge dog, working so close below them. M'Adam's face was
white; his eyes staring, unnaturally bright; his bent body projected
forward; and he tapped with his stick on the ground like a blind man,
coaxing the sheep in. And the Tailless Tyke, his tongue out and flanks
heaving, crept and crawled and worked up to the opening, patient as he
had never been before.

They were in at last.

There was a lukewarm, half-hearted cheer; then silence.

Exhausted and trembling, the little man leant against the pen, one
hand on it; whil