“Back, please! Don't encroach! M'Adam's to come!”
From the far bank the little man watched the scene. His coat and cap were off, and his hair gleamed white in the sun; his sleeves were rolled up; and his face was twitching but set as he stood—ready.
The hubbub over the stream at length subsided. One of the judges nodded to him.
“Noo, Wullie—noo or niver!—'Scots wha hae'! “—and they were off.
“Back, gentlemen! back! He's off—he's coming! M'Adam's coming!”
They might well shout and push; for the great dog was on to his sheep before they knew it; and they went away with a rush, with him right on their backs. Up the slope they swept and round the first flag, already galloping. Down the hill for the gap, and M'Adam was flying ahead to turn them. But they passed him like a hurricane, and Red Wull was in front with a rush and turned them alone.
“M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!” rang out a clear voice in the silence.
Through the gap they rattled, ears back, feet twinkling like the wings of driven grouse.
“He's lost 'em! They'll break! They're away!” was the cry.
Sam'l was half up the wheel of the Kenmuir wagon; every man was on his toes; ladies were standing in their carriages; even Jim Mason's face flushed with momentary excitement.