"The men down at Crescent say," went on Sandy smiling broadly, "that I am daffy about dogs--my own dogs most of all. Well, haven't I cause? There is not a shepherd in this part of the country but would swap his collies for mine; or they'd buy them. I've been offered many a dollar for the two. But I'm no swapping my dogs, nor selling them, either! Sometimes, you know, we fat up sheep for the market and sell them as muttons. We then have to get the sheep into cars to send them off and it is no so easy if they haven't the mind to go. Well, you should see Robin and the Prince at the job. They will run right along the backs of the herd, biting the necks of the leaders until they get them aimed where they want 'em to go; then they'll nip the heels of the others till they march up the planks into the cars neat as a line of soldiers. Or they will drive a flock onto a boat the same way. It is a great thing to get dogs that can do that. It takes more wit than a man has. Once a sheep-raiser from California saw Robin down at Glen City getting a lot of sheep off to Chicago on the train and he was hot for having him. He offered me into the hundreds if I would let him take the collie back with him." "And you wouldn't sell?" "The money ain't coined would tempt me to part with either of my dogs!" Sandy replied, with a contented shake of his head. He did not speak again, but lapsed into a thoughtful silence. There were many of these long silences during those days on the hills and to his surprise Donald had come to enjoy them. At first he had looked forward eagerly to the coming of the camp-tender, who made his rounds three times a week. Not only did this Mexican bring fresh-baked bread, cold meat, and condensed milk to add to the campers' stock of salt pork, lentils, and coffee, but he brought messages from the outside world; gossip from the other herders; and now and then a letter from Donald's father. These visits were as exciting as to meet an ocean liner at sea. Gradually, however, Donald looked forward less and less to seeing the tiny Mexican burros with their loaded paniers wend their way up the hillsides. He grew into the shepherd life until like Sandy he found himself courting the sense of isolation and almost resenting the intrusion of the camp-tender. He could now understand why the herders who had lived on the range for years were such a silent lot of men. When his father and he had first arrived at Crescent Ranch the shepherds had had so little to say that Donald, who was a sensitive lad, had felt sure that the men did not like to have them come. Later, however, he had found the herders kindly despite their taciturn manner. It was not ill-will but habitual silence. "What a lot of things people say that they don't need to, Sandy," he observed to the Scotchman one day. Sandy chuckled outright.