‘Ay, Mr. Dobson, it hes.’
The veteran climbs into the pen, and secures the sheep indicated, the loose hurdle is unbound, and Danny walks out with the animal between his legs. A struggling ewe is impossible for me to manage. Hold it as I will, I am dragged hither and thither at its pleasure, and at last am fain to let go; but these men have mastered the art of control, and in a few seconds the sheep’s marks are checked and it is driven through the rabble of men and dogs to an empty pen.
The Troutbeck shepherd is standing some yards away beside a pen containing five half-bred ewes. As I approach he turns, and remarks, with a laugh: ‘These are mine! All together, and t’ first lot I’ve looked at!’
I congratulate him on his luck, then ask him how he will prove his claim.
‘Well, look here’—he vaulted within the enclosure and laid hands on the nearest animal—‘all my sheep are marked with a R burnt on the horn; there’s t’ same on t’ hoof, wi’ a red stripe down t’ left flank like this. Well, anybody from our dale knows these marks, and if anyone doubted me I should bring some of them to prove it.‘
The shepherd and I walked round the strays still unclaimed; the wan morning light had broken into clear day I noticed, but my companion, by his remarks on fells life and customs, kept my attention closely. Then he suddenly stopped, and, pointing to a single ewe folded by itself, he said:
‘That sheep’ll not be claimed to-day, I guess.’ Then, turning to the lad in charge, he continued: ‘Jimmy, wharriver hesta gitten that fra?’ [wherever have you got that from?].
‘Why, it com into our flock three week since. Dosta know whar it belongs?’
‘It’s a gay way from here. Hesta seen Jimmy Green of Little Langdale about?’
‘He was here five minutes sen. But he can’t name it.’