The sheep were tearing along the hillside, all together, like a white scud. After them, galloping like a Waterloo winner, raced Red Wull. And last of all, leaping over the ground like a demoniac, making not for the two flags, but the plank-bridge, the white-haired figure of M'Adam.
“He's beat! The Killer's beat!” roared a strident voice.
“M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!” rang out the clear reply.
Red Wull was now racing parallel to the fugitives and above them. All four were travelling at a terrific rate; while the two flags were barely twenty yards in front, below the line of flight and almost parallel to it. To effect the turn a change of direction must be made almost through a right angle.
“He's beat! he's beat! M'Adam's beat! Can't make it nohow!” was the roar.
From over the stream a yell—“Turn 'em, Wullie!”
At the word the great dog swerved down on the flying three. They turned, still at the gallop, like a troop of cavalry, and dropped, clean and neat, between the flags; and down to the stream they rattled, passing M'Adam on the way as though he was standing.
“Weel done, Wullie!” came the scream from the far bank; and from the crowd went up an involuntary burst of applause.
“Ma word!
“Did yo' see that?”