"Hallo!" said Kit. "I haven't known him to do that before. It's not a sheepdog's trick."
"I taught him," Grace replied, with a touch of color. "He has not forgotten, and really deserves to be stroked."
She went away, but she gave Kit a smile across the railing, behind which she stood with Mrs. Osborn, when the judge called out:
"First prize, Number Four; Mr. Askew's Bob!"
When lunch was served in a big tent Osborn sat at the top of the table, but his satisfaction had vanished. For one thing, everybody had applauded when Askew won the prize; the fellow was obviously a favorite and this annoyed him. Then, Drysdale's sheep were to be sold by auction after lunch and the committee had hinted that the president was the proper person to buy the flock. Drysdale sat next to Kit at the bottom of the table. He was a little, shabbily-dressed man, with a brown face, and a twinkling smile.
"Where are the sheep?" Kit asked.
"We'll send t' band for them presently. Are you gan t' bid?"
"I don't know until I've seen them. What about their quality?"
"Weel, it might be better; they're gifts, you ken. There's a young ram might suit you; he's true Carlside strain."
"I don't know how you got him then. I can't see Mayson giving away good breeding stock."