The Story of Wool. Sara Ware Bassett

      Thornton's annoyance began to get beyond his control.

      "Very well. It is not my business," he snapped as he left the room.

      The instant he was gone Donald, who could not keep silent another moment, cried:

      "Oh, father! I am so glad you are going to let Sandy manage the dipping!"

      "It is an experiment, Don. Sandy is young and he may make a mess of things—not because he does not mean well, but because he lacks experience. He has been here a long time, to be sure, but he never has taken any care beyond watching his own flocks."

      "I do not think he will fail. The men will all help him. They like him."

      "I can see that."

      "And I like him too, father."

      "So do I, son. I am trusting him with this work not only because I like him but because I feel sure that the son of such a father cannot go far astray. It was a great surprise to me when I found Sandy was the son of Old Angus. You see we all thought so much of the old Scotchman that he was Old Angus to everybody. I had almost forgotten he had another name. I don't think I ever heard any one call him Angus McCulloch in my life. And yet I remember the name now, for I can recall seeing it written out on checks and letters."

      "It is a fine name," Donald declared.

      "Sandy comes of good stock. I want to help him all I can. If he has the right stuff in him perhaps we can give him a lift. I wish we might, for I feel we owe his father more than we ever can repay."

      It was great news to Sandy when he learned that not only was he to dip his own flock, but that into his hands was to be put the dipping of the entire herd.

      "I'm no so sure I can manage it, Mr. Clark," he said modestly, lapsing, as he often did, into his broad Scotch. "I'll do the best I can though, sir."

      "I am sure you will."

      And Sandy did do his best!

      The hot dip, with the proper proportions of lime and sulphur, was prepared, and Sandy tested its temperature by seeing if he could bear his hand in it. Then the long cement troughs were filled. These troughs were just wide enough so the sheep were not able to turn. Groups of sheep that had been driven from the larger enclosures to the small pens near the dipping troughs were then hurried, one by one, to the men standing at the head of the troughs; it was the duty of these men to push each sheep in turn down the smooth metal incline into the dip. The sheep slipped in easily. As they swam along through the steaming bath other men were posted midway and when a sheep passed they thrust the head twice under water with their crooks so that the eyes and heads—as well as the bodies—might be cleansed. At the far end of the troughs still other herders helped the bedraggled creatures out onto a draining platform where they dripped for a time and were afterward driven back into their pens.

      "I shouldn't think the sheep would ever dry!" Donald remarked to Sandy as they watched the process.

      "Oh, they do; only it takes a couple of days—and sometimes more before their wool is thoroughly dry," answered the Scotchman.

      Donald looked on, fascinated.

      The work proceeded without a hitch.

      The sheep were fed into the troughs, hurried on and away, only to give place to others. Whenever the dip cooled a fresh, hot supply was added. Within an hour Donald counted a hundred sheep swim their way through the one trough near which he chanced to be standing.

      Sandy McCulloch was everywhere at once—now here, now there, giving orders. Gladly the herders obeyed him. They all liked Sandy, not only for his own sake but for the sake of Old Angus, his father, under whom most of them had worked in years past.

      "Sandy's a fine lad!" Donald heard one of the herders say.

      "There's not a better on Crescent Ranch!" was the prompt reply from a grizzled old Mexican who was ducking the heads of the herd that sped past him.

      "He wouldn't make a bad boss of the ranch," murmured another in an undertone.

      "HE WOULDN'T MAKE A BAD BOSS"

      Sandy did not hear them. He was too intent on his work. He went about it simply, yet with his whole soul. Day after day his cheery voice could be heard:

      "Your dip is cooling, Bernardo! Warm it up a bit. Dinna you know you'll have your labor for your pains unless the stuff is hot as the sheep can bear it? Hurry your flock ahead there, José. Think you we want to be dipping sheep the rest of the season? If those ewes have drained off enough let the dogs drive them back to the pens. They'll rub their sides up against the boards and cleanse the pen as well as themselves. Now bring out the new herd that came last week from Kansas City. You'll find them in pens seventeen and eighteen. We kept them by themselves so they would scatter no disease through the flock. After they are dipped they can be put with the others."

      The men took all he said good-naturedly. Sandy used no unnecessary words, but what he did say was crisp and to the point, and the herders liked it. They liked, too, to watch his face when his lips parted and his glistening white teeth gleamed between them. Sandy had a very contagious smile. He worked tirelessly, and ever as he moved about among the sheep two great Scotch collies tagged at his heels. Busy as he was he often bent down to pat one of the shaggy heads, and was rewarded by having the beautiful dogs thrust their long noses into his hand or rub up against his knees. It was amusing to Donald to watch these dogs dash after the sheep and drive them into the pens. Sometimes they leaped on the backs of the herd and ran the entire length of the line until they reached the ones at the front. They then proceeded to bite the necks of these leaders until they turned them in the desired direction. This done, the collies would run back and by nipping the heels of the sheep at the rear they would compel them to follow where they wished to have them go.

      Donald had never seen anything like it.

      During the time that the dipping process continued he did not lack for entertainment, you may be sure.

      "You'll soon have nothing more to do, Sandy," the boy said one night when he and the Scotchman were sitting in the twilight on the steps of the big barn.

      "How's that, laddie?"

      "Why, the dipping will be over to-morrow, won't it?"

      "Yes; but that is only the beginning of trouble. We shall then put the herd out in the wet grass a while and soften their hoofs so they can be trimmed before the flocks start for the range. Then the bells must be put on, and the bands of sheep made up for the herders."

      "What do you mean by making up the herd?"

      "I'll try to tell you. Sheep, you must know, are the queerest creatures under the blue of heaven. It ain't in the power of man to understand them. Some minutes they are doing as you'd likely think they would; the next thing you know they are all stampeding off by themselves, and try as you will you cannot stop 'em. They dinna seem sometimes to have a bit of brains."

      Donald laughed.

      "Aye! You may well laugh, sitting here, but it's no so funny when they go chasing after the leaders and jumping over the face of some cliff. Think of seeing a hundred of 'em piled up dead at your feet!"

      "Did such a thing as that really ever happen, Sandy?" questioned Donald incredulously.

      "It did so. Didn't bears get after a flock on one of the ranges and didn't the whole lot of scared creatures start running? If they had but waited either the dogs or the herders might have driven off the bears. But no! Nothing would do but they must run—and run they did. One after another they leaped over the edge of the rimrock until most of the flock was destroyed. Folks named the place 'Pile-Up Chasm.' It was a sorry loss to the owner."

      "But I don't see why——"

      "No, nor anybody else," interrupted Sandy. "That's the sort of thing they do. When they are frightened