“Gallop! they say he's old and slow!” muttered the Parson. “Dash! Look at that!” For the gray dog, racing like the Nor'easter over the sea, had already retrieved the fugitive.
Man and dog were coaxing the three a step at a time toward the bridge.
One ventured—the others followed.
In the middle the leader stopped and tried to turn—and time was flying, flying, and the penning alone must take minutes. Many a man's hand was at his watch, but no one could take his eyes off the group below him to look.
“We're beat! I've won bet, Tammas!” groaned Sam'l. (The two had a long-standing wager on the matter.) “I allus knoo hoo 'twould be. I allus told yo' th' owd tyke—”
Then breaking into a bellow, his honest face crimson with enthusiasm: “Coom on, Master! Good for yo', Owd Un! Yon's the style!”
For the gray dog had leapt on the back of the hindmost sheep; it had surged forward against the next, and they were over, and making up the slope amidst a thunder of applause.
At the pen it was a sight to see shepherd and dog working together. The Master, his face stern and a little whiter than its wont, casting forward with both hands, herding the sheep in; the gray dog, his eyes big and bright, dropping to hand; crawling and creeping, closer and closer.
“They're in!—Nay—Ay—dang me! Stop 'er! Good, Owd Un! Ah-h-h, they're in!” And the last sheep reluctantly passed through—on the stroke of time.
A roar went up from the crowd; Maggie's white face turned pink; and the Dalesmen mopped their wet brows. The mob surged forward, but the stewards held them back.