“Everybody should have a second chance,” he said again. “Everybody—rich or poor, knave or fool, starvin’ sheep-dogs or—motorin’ roadhogs. Let her run!”
There was a space on the yellow programme hallowed by the name of Rain, but when Dixon came out in his order, it was not the silver-haired beauty but the cowed little tramp that trotted at his side. Pink had spent a thrilling hour gleaning new impressions. These included a tentative grooming with an old stable-brush, a few dry biscuits, a few rough caresses, a few kindly words. The sympathy and the biscuits had put fresh heart into her; the grooming had eased her self-respect. She came out gladly enough to the work she loved, though her faithful heart still yearned after the drunken, hobnailed brute slumbering behind the hedge.
Dixon dropped his hand to the dog’s head, and she cowered to the very ground. He repeated the experiment until she stood up confidently under his touch, and the two looked into each other’s eyes. Then he jerked his own head sharply, and she was gone like the wind up the edge of the slope, to be checked by a sweet, clear whistle before she was upon the fresh prey, who raised innocent eyes, unafraid of the harmless black and white patch so near. Presently there was another whistle, a languid wave of a thin ashplant, and the quartette was ambling unconcernedly towards the first of the flags.
Dixon, for all his outward calm, was conscious of a slight nervousness. He had pledged his word, so to speak, upon the dog’s worth, and would have staked his last coin, if need be; but every man handles a dog just a shade differently, and any sudden lack of sympathy between himself and his new protégée might bring fresh derision upon both. The dog was cowed, too, half-starved, home-sick for her old tyrant; but he knew the stock she came from, and the training that becomes inherited instinct after so many generations, and he counted strongly upon these. Taking a grip of himself, he concentrated all his attention upon the waif in Rain’s place, as if she had indeed been Rain herself, charged with all his hopes. And presently his confidence in the power of race changed to exultant wonder, for here was a trained intelligence answering to his will as even Rain had seldom answered. Such tact, such patience, such judgment, such skilled, gentle handling, he had never seen. There was no shouting, now, no furious waving, no volleying of oaths to scorch sensitive Society ears. The clear whistles hardly clove the air before they were obeyed; the sharp, clipped signal that means “Drop!”—the long, clear call, lifting at the end, that says “Come on!”—the shower of quick notes that telegraph “Round up!” Here were the first-class man and the first-class dog working like a single instrument. The President, his eyes glued to the little tramp, forgot that the head shepherd had never succeeded in penning the second half of the third sheep.
They had passed three of the tests—the top flags, the stone gap and the oak tree—and were making for the fourth when the first hitch occurred. Dixon, forgetting in his concentration that it was not Rain he was working, after all, employed a special call that he used on the fell to warn his dog of a precipice. It had a curious swerve in the middle, and meant—“Keep together!” and Rain would have had the sheep in a tight bunch right between the flags, but Pink was not fell-trained, and she dropped, puzzled for the first time. Dixon, cursing himself, gave her the signal she knew, but in that fatal pause one curly monster had separated itself from the rest, and taken a bee-line for home. Pink was in front of it in a flash, only to lose the other two, and there followed a pretty piece of handling which agitated the parasols into a perfect frenzy of fish-hooking, but at which Dixon frowned, for the precious minutes were flying.
The sheep were through the final flags at last, however, but their faith in their gentle conductor had been ruined by that sudden separation and breathless chase. They were in the mood to be alarmed by the smallest slip when they approached the narrow door of the uninviting fold. It was then that Dixon made his bold stroke.
Every other farmer on the field had helped to pen his sheep; it was a recognised fact that even the best of dogs could hardly accomplish the finish unaided, particularly when each of the sheep was as nervous as a cat, and would break on the slightest encouragement. But Dixon had faith in his dog, and he was playing for her reputation. He let her pen them alone.
Slowly, inch by inch, Pink crawled in rear of her charge. Slowly, inch by inch, the frightened heads turned to the pen. Something about it must have suggested safety to the first sheep, for it moved forward, and the second followed. The third, however, lost interest during the pause, and edged to the right, but Pink edged in the same direction. Tossing its head, it swung to the left, but Pink was there, also. This seemed to annoy it, for it skipped round in its own length, and faced the enemy defiantly, but Pink’s innocent muzzle was on the ground, her vivid eyes almost shut. The third sheep looked a little ashamed of itself, swung round again and lined up. The first was practically inside.
Dixon of Dockerneuk stood like stone, and Society forgot even to rustle. Pink crept nearer, nearer, and dropped for the last time; and as she did so, the first sheep, apparently disgusted with the accommodation, swerved like a shying horse in the face of its following, forcing the second sheep into the startled mouth of the third. Even then, Dixon did not stir; but there was no need, for Pink flung herself forward as the Winged Hats flung themselves at the Great Wall, and in another moment three disconsolate noses poked through barren bars, whilst a panting black and white streak stretched across the threshold of their prison.
Dixon whistled ever so softly, but she heard him and came to him gladly. He put out his hand, and she leaped to catch it joyously with her teeth. Through the cheering crowd he sought his way to his corner, but a yesterday’s enemy checked him. Larruppin’ Lyndesay faced him diffidently but courageously.