Part 16 (1/2)
”Yo're not lookin' at me noo,” whispered Maggie to the silent boy by her side.
”Nay; nor niver don't wush to agin.” David answered roughly. His gaze was directed over the array of heads in front to where, beyond the Silver Lea, a group of shepherds and their dogs was cl.u.s.tered. While standing apart from the rest, in characteristic isolation, was the bent figure of his father, and beside him the Tailless Tyke.
”Doest'o not want yo' feyther to win?” asked Maggie softly, following his gaze.
”I'm prayin' he'll be beat,” the boy answered moodily.
”Eh, Davie, hoo can ye?” cried the girl, shocked.
”It's easy to say, 'Eh, David,'” he snapped. ”But if yo' lived along o' them two ”--he nodded toward the stream--”'appen yo'd understand a bit.... 'Eh, David,' indeed! I never did!”
”I know it, lad,” she said tenderly; and he was appeased.
”He'd give his right hand for his bless'd Wullie to win; I'd give me right arm to see him beat.... And oor Bob there all the while,”--he nodded to the far left of the line, where stood James Moore and Owd Bob, with Parson Leggy and the Squire.
When at length Red Wull came out to run his course, he worked with the savage dash that always characterized him. His method was his own; but the work was admirably done.
”Keeps right on the back of his sheep,” said the parson, watching intently. ”Strange thing they don't break!” But they didn't. There was no waiting, no coaxing; it was drive and devilry all through. He brought his sheep along at a terrific rate, never missing a turn, never faltering, never running out. And the crowd applauded, for the crowd loves a das.h.i.+ng display. While little M'Adam, hopping agilely about, his face ablaze with excitement, handled dog and sheep with a masterly precision that compelled the admiration even of his enemies.
”M'Adam wins!” roared a bookmaker. ”Twelve to one agin the field!”
”He wins, dang him!” said David, low.
”Wull wins!” said the parson, shutting his lips.
”And deserves too!” said James Moore.
”Wull wins!” softly cried the crowd.
”We don't!” said Sam'l gloomily.
And in the end Red Wull did Win; and there were none save Tammas, the bigot, and Long Kirby, who had lost a good deal of his wife's money and a little of his own, to challenge the justice of the verdict.
The win had but a chilling reception. At first there was faint cheering; but it sounded like the echo of an echo, and soon died of inanition.
To get up an ovation, there must be money at the back, or a few roaring fanatics to lead the dance. Here there was neither; ugly stories, disparaging remarks, on every hand. And the hundreds who did not know took their tone, as always, from those who said they did.
M'Adam could but remark the absence of enthusiasm as he pushed up through the throng toward the committee tent. No single voice hailed him victor; no friendly hand smote its congratulations. Broad backs were turned; contemptuous glances levelled; spiteful remarks shot. Only the foreign element looked curiously at the little bent figure with the glowing face, and shrank back at the size and savage aspect of the great dog at his heels.
But what cared he? His Wullie was acknowledged champion, the best sheep-dog of the year; and the little man was happy. They could turn their backs on him; but they could not alter that; and he could afford to be indifferent. ”They dinna like it, lad--he! he! But they'll e'en ha' to thole it. Ye've won it, Wullie--won it fair.”
He elbowed through the press, making for the rope-guarded inclosure in front of the committee tent, round which the people were now packing. In the door of the tent stood the secretary, various stewards, and members of the committee. In front, alone in the roped-off s.p.a.ce, was Lady Eleanour, fragile, dainty, graceful, waiting with a smile upon her face to receive the winner. And on a table beside her, naked and dignified, the Shepherd's Trophy.
There it stood, kingly and impressive; its fair white sides inscribed with many names; cradled in three shepherds' crooks; and on the top, as if to guard the Cup's contents, an exquisitely carved collie's head. The Shepherds' Trophy, the goal of his life's race, and many another man's.
He climbed over the rope, followed by Red Wull, and took off his hat with almost courtly deference to the fair lady before him.
As he walked up to the table on which the Cup stood, a shrill voice, easily recognizable, broke the silence.
”You'd like it better if 'twas full and yo' could swim in it, you and yer Wullie,” it called. Whereat the crowd giggled, and Lady Eleanour looked indignant.
The little man turned.