and the owner was sublimely confident of being "up
against a sure thing." Many fortunes have been made from that source;
and there are perhaps millions of human beings now eating mutton or
wearing cloth who, if they could trace the authorship of these good
things, would stand up and bless the memory of Snarley Bob.

One day among the hills I met the old man in presence of his charge,
like a general reviewing his troops. As the flock passed on before us
the professional reticence of Snarley was broken, and he began to talk
of the animals before him, pointing to this and to that. Little by
little his remarks began to remind me of something I had read in a book.
On returning home, I looked the matter up. The book was a treatise on
Mendelism, and, as I read on, the link was strengthened. Meeting Snarley
Bob a few days afterwards, I did my best to communicate what I had
learnt about Mendelism. He listened with profound attention, though, as
I thought, with a trace of annoyance. He made some deprecatory remarks,
quite in character, about "learned chaps as goes 'umbuggin' about things
they don't understand." But in the end he was forced to confess some
interest in what he had heard. "Them fellers," he said, "is on the right
road; but they don't know where they're goin', and they don't go far
enough." "How much further ought they to go?" I asked. For answer
Snarley pointed to rows of notches on a five-barred gate and said, "It's
all there." Whether it is "all there" or not I cannot tell; for the
secret of those notches was never revealed to me, and the brain which
held it lies under eight feet of clay in Deadborough churchyard. Perhaps
Snarley is now discussing the matter with "the tall Shepherd"[1] in some
nook of Elysium where the winds are less keen than they used to be on
Quarry Hill.

[Footnote 1: See _post_, "The Death of Snarley Bob."]

Had Snarley received a due share of the unearned increment which his own
and his rams' achievements brought into other hands he would probably
have died a millionaire. But for all his toil and skill he received no
more than a shepherd's wage. There were not wanting persons, of course,
who regarded his condition as a crucial instance of the exceeding
rottenness of our present industrial system. There was a great lady from
London, named Lady Lottie Passingham, who resolved to take up the case.
Lady Lottie belonged to the class who look upon the universe as a leaky
old kettle and themselve