"Wull wins!" softly cried the crowd.

"We don't!" said Sam'l gloomily.

And in the end Red Wull did Win; and there were none save
Tammas, the bigot, and Long Kirby, who had lost a good deal of
his wife's money and a little of his own, to challenge the justice of
the verdict.

The win had but a chilling reception. At first there was faint
cheering; but it sounded like the echo of an echo, and soon died of
inanition. To get up an ovation, there must be money at the back,
or a few roaring fanatics to lead the dance. Here there was neither;
ugly stories, disparaging remarks, on every hand. And the hundreds
who did not know took their tone, as always, from those who said
they did.

M'Adam could but remark the absence of enthusiasm as he pushed
up through the throng toward the committee tent. No single voice
hailed him victor; no friendly hand smote its congratulations.
Broad backs were turned; contemptuous glances levelled; spiteful
remarks shot. Only the foreign element looked curiously at the
little bent figure with the glowing face, and shrank back at the size
and savage aspect of the great dog at his heels.

But what cared he? His Wullie was acknowledged champion, the
best sheep-dog of

the year; and the lit Lie man was happy. They could turn their
backs on him; but they could not alter that; and he could afford to