‘Time,’ said that official, and dropped a white handkerchief. It was the signal for the men to let go the sheep, which, once released, ran a little way, and then began to nibble the rich luscious grass. It was grand fare for them after what the moors had provided. At the same instant Zubdil waved his stick. As if galvanised into life, Nance, who had been stretched lazily at his feet snapping at the flies, shot up the field like an arrow from a bow. Young Zub, straining hard at the rope, his fingers in his mouth, watched her every stride, judging both pace and distance. A moment later a shrill whistle, a long-drawn-out rising cadence, went up, and with one ear cocked by way of reply the young dog closed in on the rear of the nibbling sheep. They threw up their heads and broke towards the river in a swift rush. A series of sharp notes stabbed the air, and l’ile Nance, belly flat almost, such was her speed, swung round them and headed them off. Back they came in a huddled group to the very mouth of the first lot of posts. For a second they hesitated, uncertain where to run, but Nance was coming up on their rear and they broke through. Hard on their heels she followed, swinging now right, now left, as one or other made as if to burst away, and so skilful her piloting that she took them straight away through the second line of posts at the run. A loud cheer went up from the onlookers; it was a neat bit of work. But not a man but knew that things were going too well; it is not in the nature of driven sheep to keep the proper course for long together. True to their traditions of stupidity and contrariness, they broke away fan-wise when nearing the last posts. Zubdil, straining on loop until he was drawn sideways, sent out clear, quick calls, a Morse code of commands. Nance was as if making circles on her two near legs. With ears laid flush, body stretching and closing like a rubber cord, she flashed round the heads of the straying ones, collected them and hustled them through the posts at panic speed. Once again that rising note rang out, and in response she swept them round in a wide circle towards the cross-roads. This was the danger point, for the hurdles stood close to the ring of spectators, and here, if anywhere, the sheep were most likely to bolt out of hand. What happened was the unexpected. A fussy fox-terrier, excited by the tumult and its nerves snapping at the sight of the racing sheep, broke loose from its owner and, open-mouthed and noisy, sprang in to take a hand. It caught the nearest sheep and nipped its leg. A roar of anger went up; an interruption like this was against all tradition. Young Zub, who was racing across the field to join l’ile Nance, rapped out an excusable ‘damn,’ and half a dozen farmers on the edge of the ring loudly expressed a wish to break the neck of the terrier, and to ‘belt’ the careless owner of that animal. On the slope above the crowd Owd Zub was dancing with rage.