while Melia Ross in the background was pretending she didn't
care.

On the far bank of the stream was a little bevy of men and dogs,
observed of all.

The Juvenile Stakes had been run and won; Londesley's Lassie had
carried off the Locals; and the fight for the Shepherds' Trophy was
about to begin.

"Yo're not lookin' at me noo," whispered Maggie to the silent boy
by her side.

"Nay; nor niver don't wush to agin." David answered roughly. His
gaze was directed over the array of heads in front to where, beyond
the Silver Lea, a group of shepherds and their dogs was clustered.
While standing apart from the rest, in characteristic isolation, was
the bent figure of his father, and beside him the Tailless Tyke.

"Doest'o not want yo' feyther to win?" asked Maggie softly,
following his gaze.

"I'm prayin' he'll be beat," the boy answered moodily.

"Eh, Davie, hoo can ye?" cried the girl, shocked.

"It's easy to say, 'Eh, David,' "he snapped. "But if yo' lived along o'
them two "--he nodded toward the stream--" 'appen yo'd understand
a bit. . . . 'Eh, David,' indeed! I never did!"