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As the shepherds arrive, their quotas are penned separately, and all around is the buzz of conversation from weather-beaten men, looking intently on each occupant of the rough constructions. Now and again I hear a voice claiming one for his own.

‘Ay, this is mine. Looksta at t’ blue pop on’t nar [near] shoulder?‘

‘What’s yer other marks, Mister Dobson?’ says a rugged veteran who seems to have constituted himself steward of this pen.

‘Well, noo, I bowt [bought] that fra Jack Briggs o’ t’ Lilehouse. It’ll be horn-marked B on t’ right horn, and D on t’ left hoof. Hesn’t it a “key” in t’ right lug [ear]?‘

‘Ay, Mr. Dobson, it hes.’

The veteran climbs into the pen, and secures the sheep indicated, the loose hurdle is unbound, and Danny walks out with the animal between his legs. A struggling ewe is impossible for me to manage. Hold it as I will, I am dragged hither and thither at its pleasure, and at last am fain to let go; but these men have mastered the art of control, and in a few seconds the sheep’s marks are checked and it is driven through the rabble of men and dogs to an empty pen.