“By gob!”
It was a turn, indeed, of which the smartest team in the galloping horse-gunners might well have been proud. A shade later, and they must have overshot the mark; a shade sooner, and a miss.
“He's not been two minutes so far. We're beaten—don't you think so, Uncle Leggy?” asked Muriel Sylvester, looking up piteously into the parson's face.
“It's not what I think, my dear; it's what the judges think,” the parson replied; and what he thought their verdict would be was plainly writ on his face for all to read.
Right on to the centre of the bridge the leading sheep galloped and—stopped abruptly.
Up above in the crowd there was utter silence; staring eyes; rigid fingers. The sweat was dripping off Long Kirby's face; and, at the back, a green-coated bookmaker slipped his note-book in his pocket, and glanced behind him. James Moore, standing in front of them all, was the calmest there.
Red Wull was not to be denied. Like his forerunner he leapt on the back of the hindmost sheep. But the red dog was heavy where the gray was light. The sheep staggered, slipped, and fell.
Almost before it had touched the water, M'Adam, his face afire and eyes flaming, was in the stream. In a second he had hold of the struggling creature, and, with an almost superhuman effort, had half thrown, half shoved it on to the bank.
Again a tribute of admiration, led by James Moore.
The little man scrambled, panting, on to the bank and raced after sheep and dog. His face was white beneath the perspiration; his breath came in quavering gasps; his trousers were wet and clinging to his legs; he was trembling in every limb, and yet indomitable.