Kit went off with his heart beating and felt half amused by his keenness when the steward tied the string to his leg.  After his adventures on the Caribbean and the stakes he and Adam had played for, it was strange he should be eager to win a box of plated forks at a rustic show.  Yet, he was eager; Grace had wished him luck.

“Number four; Mr. Askew’s Old Bob!” the steward announced.

Kit called, and Bob, trotting away deliberately, got the sheep together and drove them correctly through the holes.  He was doing well, in one sense, and Kit knew he would make few mistakes, but time counted and old Bob was slow.  He had trouble at the hurdles, where the sheep seemed resolved to go the wrong way, but he stopped them and took them back to the proper end.  Kit gave very few orders, although he looked at his watch rather anxiously.  Bob understood and could be trusted to do his work, the trouble was he might not finish it in time.  At length, Kit drew a deep breath, and put back his watch.  The sheep were in the pen and there was a minute left.

Kit went back to Grace, and Bob trotted up, panting, with his tongue hanging out.  He looked at Kit, as if for approval; and then, after wagging his tail when his master spoke, held up his paw to Grace.

“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.”

Drysdale grinned.  “Some big stanes fell on t’ ram when Mayson was Bringing flock doon Barra ghyll.  He looks a bit the waur o’ it, but you can tell the Carlside blood.”

“I’ll see what I think about the animal,” Kit said with a laugh.  “Do you expect a good sale?  The rich people, as a rule, go to church.”