Sight of a sheep herd browsing over “The Green” sufficiently surprised and pleased his pastoral eye as to brighten temporarily his mood. He polkaed Dot down to a walk.
A flock of Dorsets in the Great Garden of New York Town! More than a hundred horned heads he estimated them, not counting the wobbly-legged lambs trailing the ewes. Although oil was Pape’s bonanza, cattle was his stock in trade, yet he felt none of the cowman’s usual aversion for the wearers of fleece. He was, as a matter of fact, a “mixed” rancher, with sheep of his own on the Hellroaring reaches. He rejoiced that these animals, at least, could enjoy the company of their kind and graze to their taste. Indeed, a more satisfactory pasture could not have been found for them, except for the fact that an over-used auto-road “unfenced” that side of it next the bridle path. The condition, precarious both for the sheep and the drivers of cars, hung heavily in his consideration until he caught sight of the dog that was on guard.
“What d’you think of that, horse-alive?” he made demand of Polkadot. “A police hound instead of a collie—a Belgian, at that—close-herding the woollies?”
When one of the fattest of the mutton-heads waddled into the auto-greased roadway in an ambitious expedition toward the grass-tufted border along the path, Pape pulled his painted pony to a stop and watched with active interest.
“Quick, Kicko, round her up!”
The shouted command came from the flock-master, appearing at a run around the far side of the band.
Unmistakable as the breed of the dog was the intelligence of his work. With warning, staccato yelps he dashed from among the more discreet of his charges, cut off the stray from her goal, snatched her by a mouthful of wool out of the path of a speeding car, then nipped her into a return rush to the safety of The Green.
“Great work, Kicko! Here, boy, I want to shake!”
Pape, enthusiastic over the best bit of herding he ever had seen done under adverse circumstances, rode toward the dog hero, swung out of the saddle and met him more than halfway in the paw-shaking, ear-scratching formalities that followed.
The master, a stout, middle-aged, uniformed expert, showed himself as pleased with the introduction as his canine assistant. He gave his name as Tom Hoey of the Sheepfold, the gabled roof of which could be plainly seen a short distance south and nearer the park wall. Willingly enough he contributed to the information fund of the easy-going stranger.