far left of the line, where stood James Moore and Owd Bob,
with Parson Leggy and the Squire.

When at length Red Wull came out to run his course, he worked with the
savage dash that always characterized him. His method was his own; but
the work was admirably done.

"Keeps right on the back of his sheep," said the parson, watching
intently. "Strange thing they don't break!" But they didn't. There was
no waiting, no coaxing; it was drive and devilry all through. He
brought his sheep along at a terrific rate, never missing a turn, never
faltering, never running out. And the crowd applauded, for the crowd
loves a dashing display. While little M'Adam, hopping agilely about,
his face ablaze with excitement, handled dog and sheep with a masterly
precision that compelled the admiration even of his enemies.

"M'Adam wins!" roared a bookmaker. "Twelve to one agin the field!"

"He wins, dang him!" said David, low.

"Wull wins!" said the parson, shutting his lips.

"And deserves too!" said James Moore.

"Wull wins!" softly cried the crowd.

"We don't!" said Sam'l gloomily.

And in the end Red Wull did Win; and there were none save Tammas, the
bigot, and Long Kirby, who had lost a good deal of his wife's money and
a little of his own, to challenge the justice of the verdict.

The win had but a chilling reception. At first there was faint cheering;
but it sounded like the echo of an echo, and soon died of inanition.
To get up an ovation, there must be money at the back, or a few roaring
fanatics to lead the dance. Here there was neither; ugly stories,
disparaging remarks, on every hand. And the hundreds who did not know
took their tone, as always, from those who said they did.

M'Adam could but remark the absence of enthusiasm as he pushed up
through the throng toward the committee tent. No single voice hailed
him victor; no friendly hand smote its congratulations. Broad backs were
turned; contemptuous glances levelled; spiteful remarks shot. Only the
foreign element looked curiously at the little bent figure with the
glowing face, and shrank back at the size and savage aspect of the great
dog at his heels.

But what cared he? His Wullie was acknowledged champion, the best
sheep-dog of the year; and the little man was happy. They could turn
their backs on him; but they could not alter that; and he could afford
to be indifferent. "They dinna like it, lad--he! he! But they'll e'en
ha' to thole it. Ye've won it, Wullie--w