So the work went on, and each day saw “the snakes” approaching nearer to their goal on the crest of the fells.  Peregrine still pursued his calling, for the farmers, partly to humour the old man, gave orders that a gap here and there should be left in the walls through which he could drive his flocks.  The work slackened somewhat during the hay harvest, and the services of the wallers were enlisted in the meadows below.  But when the hay was gathered into the barns—­there are no haystacks in the Yorkshire dales—­walling was resumed with greater vigour than before.  The summer was advancing, and the plan was to finish the work before the winter storms called a halt.  All hands were therefore summoned to the task, and the farmers themselves would often join the bands of wallers.  Peregrine kept out of their way as far as possible, hating nothing so much as the sound of their hammers dressing the stone.  But one day, as he rounded a rocky spur, he came upon the chief farmer of the district, as he was having dinner with his men under the lee of the wall he was building.  Seeing that an encounter was unavoidable, the shepherd advanced boldly to meet his adversary.

“I’ve catched thee at thy wark at last have I, Timothy?” were his words of greeting, and Timothy Metcalfe cowered before a voice which seared like one of his own branding-irons.  “Enclosin’ t’ freemen’s commons is nobbut devil’s wark, I’s thinkin’,” Peregrine went on relentlessly, “and I’ve marked thee out for devil’s wark sin first thou tried to bring more nor thy stint o’ Swawdill yowes on to t’ moor.”

The wallers received this home-thrust with a smile of approval, and Timothy, roused by this, sought to defend himself.

“It’s noan devil’s wark,” he retorted.  “Enclosure was made by order o’ t’ commissioners.”

“Aye, I know all about t’ commissioners—­farmers hand i’ glove wi’ t’ lawyers frae t’ towns, and, aboon all, a government that’s i’ t’ landlords’ pockets.  What I say is that t’ common land belongs iverybody, an’ sike-like as thee have gotten no reight to fence it in.”

“Happen we’re doin’ it for t’ good o’ t’ country,” argued Timothy.  “There’s bin a vast o’ good herbage wasted, wi’ sheep hallockin’ all ower t’ moors, croppin’ a bit here and a bit theer, and lettin’ t’ best part o’ t’ grass get spoilt.”

“Thou’s leein’, and thou knows it,” replied Peregrine, with the righteous indignation of one whose professional honour is impugned.  “I’ve allus taen care that t’ moors hae bin cropped fair; thou reckons thou’ll feed mair yowes an’ lambs on t’ moors when thou’s bigged thy walls; but thou weant, thou’ll feed less.  I know mair about sheep nor thou does, and I tell thee thou’ll not get thy twee hinds to tend ’em same as a shepherd that’s bred an’ born on t’ moors.”

“We sal see about that,” Metcalfe answered sullenly.

“An’ what wilta do when t’ winter storms coom?” Peregrine continued.  “It’s not o’ thee an’ thine, but o’ t’ yowes I’s thinkin’; they’ll be liggin theer for mebbe three week buried under t’ snow.  It’s then thou’ll be wantin’ t’ owd shipperd back, aye, an’ Rover too, that can set a sheep when shoo’s under six foot o’ snow.”