Bob Son of Battle [76]
had conceived for him a violent antip-. athy, and, straightway, had spun at him with all the fury of the Highland cateran, who at-~ tacks first and explains afterward. Red Wull, forthwith, had turned on him with savage, silent gluttony; bob-tailed Rasper was racing up to join in the attack; and in another second the three would have been locked inseparably--but just in time M'Adam intervened. One of the judges came hurrying up.
"Mr. M'Adam," he cried angrily. "if that brute of yours gets fighting again, hang me if I don't disqualify him! Only last year at the Trials he killed the young Cossack dog."
A dull flash of passion swept across M'Adam's face. "Come here, Wullic!" he called. "Gin yon Hielant tyke attacks ye agin, ye're to be disqualified."
He was unheeded. The battle for the Cup had begun--little Pip leading the dance.
On the opposite slope the babel had subsided now. Hucksters left their wares, and bookmakers their stools, to watch the struggle. Every eye was intent on the moving figures of man and dog and three sheep over the stream.
One after one the competitors ran their course and penned their sheep--there was no single failure. And all received their just meed of applause, save only Adam M'Adam's Red Wull.
Last of all, when Owd Bob trotted out to uphold his title, there went up such a shout as made Maggie's wan cheeks to blush with pleasure, and wee Anne to scream right lustily.
His was an incomparable exhibition. Sheep should be humored rather than hurried; coaxed, rather than coerced. And that sheepdog has attained the summit of his art who subdues his own personality and leads his sheep in pretending to be led. Well might the bosoms of the Dalesmen swell with pride as they watched their favorite at his work; well might Tammas pull out that hackneyed phrase, "The brains of a mon and the way of a woman"; well might the crowd bawl their enthusiasm, and Long Kirby puff his cheeks and rattle the money in his trouser pockets.
But of this part it is enough to say that Pip, Owd Bob, and Red Wull were selected to fight out the struggle afresh.
The course was altered and stiffened. On the far side the stream it remained as before; up the slope; round a flag; down the hill again; through the gap in the wall; along the hillside; down through the two flags; turn; and to the stream again. But the pen was removed from its former position, carried over the bridge, up the near slope, and the hurdles put together at the very foot of the spectators.
The sheep had to be driven over the plank bridge, and the penning done beneath the very nose of the crowd. A stiff course, if ever there was one; and the time allowed, ten short minutes.
The spectators hustled and elbowed in their endeavors 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.
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 daily.
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
"Mr. M'Adam," he cried angrily. "if that brute of yours gets fighting again, hang me if I don't disqualify him! Only last year at the Trials he killed the young Cossack dog."
A dull flash of passion swept across M'Adam's face. "Come here, Wullic!" he called. "Gin yon Hielant tyke attacks ye agin, ye're to be disqualified."
He was unheeded. The battle for the Cup had begun--little Pip leading the dance.
On the opposite slope the babel had subsided now. Hucksters left their wares, and bookmakers their stools, to watch the struggle. Every eye was intent on the moving figures of man and dog and three sheep over the stream.
One after one the competitors ran their course and penned their sheep--there was no single failure. And all received their just meed of applause, save only Adam M'Adam's Red Wull.
Last of all, when Owd Bob trotted out to uphold his title, there went up such a shout as made Maggie's wan cheeks to blush with pleasure, and wee Anne to scream right lustily.
His was an incomparable exhibition. Sheep should be humored rather than hurried; coaxed, rather than coerced. And that sheepdog has attained the summit of his art who subdues his own personality and leads his sheep in pretending to be led. Well might the bosoms of the Dalesmen swell with pride as they watched their favorite at his work; well might Tammas pull out that hackneyed phrase, "The brains of a mon and the way of a woman"; well might the crowd bawl their enthusiasm, and Long Kirby puff his cheeks and rattle the money in his trouser pockets.
But of this part it is enough to say that Pip, Owd Bob, and Red Wull were selected to fight out the struggle afresh.
The course was altered and stiffened. On the far side the stream it remained as before; up the slope; round a flag; down the hill again; through the gap in the wall; along the hillside; down through the two flags; turn; and to the stream again. But the pen was removed from its former position, carried over the bridge, up the near slope, and the hurdles put together at the very foot of the spectators.
The sheep had to be driven over the plank bridge, and the penning done beneath the very nose of the crowd. A stiff course, if ever there was one; and the time allowed, ten short minutes.
The spectators hustled and elbowed in their endeavors 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.
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 daily.
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