His was an incomparable exhibition. Sheep should be humored rather than hurried; coaxed, rather than coerced. And that sheep-dog has attained the summit of his art who subdues his own personality and leads his sheep in pretending to be led. Well might the bosoms of the Dalesmen swell with pride as they watched their favorite at his work; well might Tammas pull out that hackneyed phrase, “The brains of a mon and the way of a woman”; well might the crowd bawl their enthusiasm, and Long Kirby puff his cheeks and rattle the money in his trouser pockets. But of this part it is enough to say that Pip, Owd Bob, and Red Wull were selected to fight out the struggle afresh. The course was altered and stiffened. On the far side the stream it remained as before; up the slope; round a flag; down the hill again; through the gap in the wall; along the hillside; down through the two flags; turn; and to the stream again. But the pen was removed from its former position, carried over the bridge, up the near slope, and the hurdles put together at the very foot of the spectators. The sheep had to be driven over the plank bridge, and the penning done beneath the very nose of the crowd. A stiff course, if ever there was one; and the time allowed, ten short minutes. * * * * * The spectators hustled and elbowed in their endeavors to obtain a good position. And well they might; for about to begin was the finest exhibition of sheep-handling any man there was ever to behold. * * * * * Evan Jones and Little Pip led off. Those two, who had won on many a hard-fought field, worked together as they had never worked before. Smooth and swift, like a yacht in Southampton Water; round the flag, through the gap, they brought their sheep. Down between the two flags--accomplishing right well that awkward turn; and back to the bridge. There they stopped: the sheep would not face that narrow way. Once, twice, and again, they broke; and each time the gallant little Pip, his tongue out and tail quivering, brought them back to the bridge-head. At length one faced it; then another, and--it was too late. Time was up. The judges signalled; and the Welshman called off his dog and withdrew. Out of sight of mortal eye, in a dip of the ground, Evan Jones sat down and took the small dark head between his knees--and you may be sure the dog's heart was heavy as the man's. “We did our pest, Pip,” he cried brokenly, “but we're peat--the first time ever we've been!” * * * * * No time to dally. James Moore and Owd Bob were off on their last run. No applause this time; not a voice was raised; anxious faces; twitching fingers; the whole crowd tense as a stretched wire. A false turn, a wilful sheep, a cantankerous judge, and the gray dog would be beat. And not a man there but knew it.