"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 dashing 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.