Brant took command in earnest now. “Durn you, Michael, will you leave shepherding to shepherds. What’s the use of you, quavering with a stick and walking as if your toes were on hot bricks? A figure of fun, I call you.”
“I’ll leave it to you gladly, Brant,” chuckled Michael, the sweat dripping from his cheery face. “For my part I’ve had enough and to spare of the game.”
“Then get a hand into the collar of that fool-dog of yours, and see how mine has learned to work.”
Michael obeyed. Brant and he were old enough in friendship to make small account of plain speech between them, and the farmer watched the other’s dog at work with growing approbation—watched him as he drove some of the ewes in front, thrust others aside, getting his own and those that did not matter into two companies.
“A gift, I call it—a fair marvel,” he muttered, talking to the dog he held by the collar. “See ’em at it—Brant and his snod-haired collie. We’re a rough couple, lad, when it comes to rounding sheep up.”
The flocks were separate at last, and Brant’s dog padded up and down with restless question what was asked of him.
“Home to Logie,” said the shepherd, “I’ll follow soon.”
Michael grew wide-eyed with wonderment as he saw the ewes go down the slope, the collie shepherding a straggler now and then with quiet persuasion.
“He can do almost aught but talk, Brant.”
“And does it better for that lack,” said the shepherd, filling his pipe. “Dogs have the pull of us there. They work instead of talking. Lordie, it’s been a warm job, this.”