At their heels trotted two sheep-dogs of the small
wiry breed common in the mountains. Hugh looked about to see who
was in charge of them; but no one was visible. The dogs were taking
the sheep along without word or sign from anyone, hurrying them
at a good sharp pace, each keeping on his own flank of the mob, or
occasionally dropping behind to hurry up the laggards.
It was a marvellous exhibition of sagacity. They came to a place
where it was necessary to turn sharply to the right to cross
a small creek; one of the dogs shot forward, and sent the leading
sheep scurrying down the bank, while the other fell back a few yards
and prevented the mob turning back. After a moment's hesitation the
sheep plunged into the shallow water, splashed across the creek,
and set off again in their compact march down the valley, urged
and directed by their silent custodians--who paused to lap a few
mouthfuls of water, and then hurried on with an air of importance.
"Look at that," said Hugh, in open admiration. "Isn't that
wonderful? Those are Red Mick's dogs. I knew they were good dogs,
but this is simply marvellous, isn't it? What are we to do now? If
I take the sheep from them they'll run home, and I can't prosecute
Red Mick because they picked up a mob of sheep."
"Oh, but he must be near them somewhere," said Mary, to whom
the whole affair appeared uncanny.
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