There was great rejoicing among the herders when, in the latter part of April, they drove their flocks to Glen City for the shearing, and heard that Sandy McCulloch had been made manager of Crescent Ranch.

Mr. Clark and Donald gave out the facts with greatest care—how Thornton was to become Clark & Son's confidential man at the Boston office; and how Sandy was to take the vast sheep-raising portion of the business under his direction.

"It is a proud day for you, Sandy!" cried JosÉ.

"I'm no pretending I ain't pleased," replied Sandy, beaming on the Mexican, "but dinna think I'm proud. If I do my work well pride may come; still, it's no time for it now."

"Of course you'll do it well—how could you help it! It is in your blood," JosÉ declared. "You have your father's own knack about the flocks. It is the real love for herding—a kind of part of you, it seems."

"I get it from generations of shepherds who have tended the black-faced sheep among the broom and the heather on the hills of Scotland, I doubt not," answered Sandy.

"Well, it stands you in good stead, however you come by it," JosÉ called over his shoulder as he moved off toward the pen where his sheep were.

"I hope it may stand me in good stead in the future, Don," Sandy said gravely to the boy beside him.

"I am sure it will. Isn't it splendid, Sandy, to see the herders all so pleased and ready to follow out your orders? I think nothing could have made me happier than to have you put in to manage the ranch."

"I'm verra, verra glad myself, laddie. It is a thing I never dared hope for, and I would not have wanted to take the job from Thornton. But since he is going East and is to be well provided for it makes everything right."

"And yet you telegraphed my father to come here, Sandy."

It was the first time the telegram had ever been mentioned between them.

Sandy hesitated.

"I felt your father should come out here and cast his eye over the place and, loving the ranch so well, I took it on myself to send for him. But I told no tales. It was his task to find the flaws if there were any. I am no certain what he found and I dinna want to hear. I simply know the snarls have straightened themselves out, and that Crescent Ranch is now going on better than it has in years. The men have all been glad for a glimpse of your father. It is no so much fun working for somebody you have never seen. It has been a great thing to have him come. And as for the herds—was there ever a finer sight?"

He swept his hand around dramatically.

On every side, in numbered pens, sheep were waiting to be sheared.

It was the first time Donald had seen the stock all together and it was indeed, as Sandy had declared, a fine sight.

The herders were not a little proud of the thickness of the fleeces of their respective flocks and much good-natured banter passed between them.

"Is it on corn-husks you have been feeding your ewes that they look so sickly?" called one Mexican to another.

The swarthy herdsman grinned.

"Mind your own band, Manuel Torquello! You haven't a fleece in your fold that will tip the scales at ten pounds."

Both men laughed and passed on.

"How much ought fleeces to weigh, Sandy?" asked Donald.

"From six to ten pounds—as the clip runs. Some are heavier, some lighter. It depends on the quality of the wool, and the amount of oil in it."

"I don't see why the shearing is not done at the ranch instead of driving all the sheep down here to Glen City," panted Donald as he tried to keep up with Sandy's strides.

"Why, you see, lad, it is much more convenient to have the wool clipped near the railroad. In that way we do away with carting it. The fleeces can be sheared, packed, weighed, and put right on the cars. Beside that, we get the power to run our plant from Glen City. Our shearing is done by electricity and not by hand, you know."

"It is mean of me to make you answer questions, Sandy, when you are in such a hurry," Donald ventured hesitatingly, "but I wish you had time to explain to me about the shearing."

Sandy was in a hurry—there was no denying that!

He and Donald had driven down from Crescent that morning, and were to meet Thornton and Mr. Clark as soon as possible at the shed where the shearing was to be done. Nevertheless, in spite of his haste, Sandy tried as he went along to answer Donald's question.

"There was a time long ago when all shearing was done by hand. In the spring bands of traveling shearers came from ranch to ranch and sheared the flocks for so much a day. Sometimes these men were Mexicans, sometimes Indians. As they made a business of shearing and nothing else they became verra skilful with the shears and could turn off many fleeces a day. It is an art to shear a sheep. Many a try must you have before you can do it. The smaller ranches still shear by hand, for it does not pay to run a power plant unless you have large flocks."

"I suppose a power plant does the work quicker," suggested Donald.

"No, I think good shearers can clip the fleeces almost as fast. The chief advantage in machinery is that it takes the wool off closer, and you do not need such skilled men to do the work. You just have to remember not to shear flocks this way in summer, for the wool would be cut so close that your sheep would be wild with flies and sunburn before their coats grew long enough to protect them."

They had now reached the plant, where they were to meet Donald's father and Thornton; they mounted the steps of the low building and went in. Immediately they were greeted by the whirr of wheels, the chatter of many herders, and the blatting of sheep.

Mr. Clark came forward.

"Well, Don," he said, "this is quite a sight, isn't it?"

"I should say it was! I had no idea shearing was done this way. It is just the way they clip horses or cut my hair."

His father smiled.

"Yes, it is done on the same principle. Let us watch this man here. He is just starting. I thought he would tie the feet of the sheep first, but he does not seem to be doing it; instead he is turning it up on its rump, and holding it with his left arm so its hoofs cannot touch the floor. They say sheep never kick or struggle if their feet are raised from the ground. Now he is starting with the shears. See! He is opening the wool by a cut down the right shoulder. How neatly the fleece comes off—almost in one piece, as if it was a jacket!"

"I guess that was a smooth-skinned sheep," laughed Donald, "or the shearer never could have done it so quickly."

The man who was shearing overheard him.

"It was a smooth-skinned one," he called. "Still, even the wrinkly Merinos loose their coats pretty fast. Watch and see. I have one right here."

Donald watched.

It was fascinating.

"I'd like to try it," he said glancing up at his father.

"I guess you'd have trouble!"

"I wouldn't mind the trouble if I wasn't afraid of cutting the sheep," replied the boy.

"Suppose you leave it until you come West the next time," called Sandy, who chanced to be passing and heard his words. "You mustn't do everything this trip, or you'll have nothing to look forward to when you come again."

"Perhaps it's as well for the sheep!" grunted the Mexican who was shearing.

"I shouldn't wonder!" answered Donald good-naturedly.

But what a charm there was in that crisp snip of the shears!

At last, however, Donald and his father moved on to where crews of men were busy at smooth board tables.

"What are they doing here?" Donald asked.

"They are tying fleeces," explained Mr. Clark.

"But don't they wash that dirty wool before they tie it up?" questioned the boy, astounded.

Sandy, who had joined them for the moment, laughed at Donald's disgust.

"You'd have us washing and ironing it, perhaps," he chuckled. "No, no! We used to wash all fleeces before they were clipped, 'tis true. But your father says that now buyers care little for them washed. Folks will pay about as much for good wool unwashed as washed. It is a lucky thing for us, because it saves us much trouble; more than that, it is better for the sheep not to be put through the water. The thick fleece stays damp for many days, and unless the creature is range-bred and therefore used to all weather it suffers a shock, and is liable to be sick. You can't shear a flock until about two weeks after washing, for not only must the fleece dry, but new yolk must form in the wool. If the wool is too dry the shears will not slip through it."

"But by the end of two weeks I should think the sheep would have his fleece all dirty again," objected Donald.

"That is just the point—he does."

"Why couldn't you wash the fleece after it is taken off?"

"We could. It is done sometimes. Your father can tell you that he sends off wool and has it scoured before selling it if a buyer wishes it done."

Mr. Clark nodded.

"But here," continued Sandy, "we wash no fleeces. We do take care, though, not to tie very dirty pieces in with the fleece. My father always insisted on the tying being honest. Only wool went into the bundle. You and your father must watch and see how quickly they do the tying."

As Sandy flitted away again Mr. Clark and Donald made their way to the long table where the boys who went about among the shearers and collected the fleeces were tossing them down.

Each fleece was spread out on the table, the belly and loose ends folded deftly inside; then the whole was fastened into a square bundle.

"It would seem as if any twine would do to tie a package like that, wouldn't it, Don?" said Mr. Clark.

"Of course."

"It is not so," went on his father. "There is nothing about which a wool-grower has to be more careful than about the twine with which he ties his fleeces. You must always avoid using a fiber twine—by that I mean hemp, or any variety having fibers which will break off in the wool. These fibers or particles get stuck in the fleeces, and later when the wool reaches the mill, the mill people do not like it. Either the bits of hemp have to be picked out—an endless job—or the wool is sent back. You can see that they could not dye wool with all these little particles in it. The hemp would take a different color from the rest of the wool, and would result in specked goods."

"What kind of twine do we use, father?" asked Donald, much interested.

"We use a paper twine. Other growers often tie their fleeces with glazed twine."

"I never should have thought twine could make so much trouble," mused the lad.

"You would think of it, though, if you had once been set to picking fiber out of wool as I was when I was a boy!" interrupted Sandy, as he darted past.

Donald and his father followed at the heels of the young Scotchman as he went through into another shed where the wool was being packed. Here lay great piles of tied fleeces and heaps of loose wool. About the shed stood wooden frames from the center of which swung burlap sacks used for packing the clip.

"Why do the men first stuff the two lower corners of the bags with wool and tie them?" the boy asked after he had looked on a few moments.

"We call those corners ears," replied his father. "Sacks of wool are not only awkward to handle but very heavy, and it is a help to have the corners, firmly tied, to take hold of."

Donald nodded. He was too busy looking about him to reply.

The men packing the wool took one of the burlap bags, fitted its mouth over a wooden hoop just the right size, and fastened the bag inside the frame in such a way that it hung its full length and just cleared the floor.

Then the packer began tossing wool into the sack.

When it was about half-full he jumped into it and tramped the fleeces down solidly.

Afterward he climbed out and another man wheeled a truck under the frame; then the packer freed the sack, and when it dropped it was promptly sewed up and wheeled to the scales, where it was weighed. Its weight was entered in a book by a man who kept the tally and the same figures were also roughly painted on the bag.

"And there's the end of it!" exclaimed Sandy, who came up and stood beside Donald as Mr. Clark walked away. "Now you know the wool business, Don!"

Donald shook his head.

"It will take me longer than this to know the wool business," he answered. "I mean when we get home, though, to get father to tell me the rest of it—about the selling and manufacturing."

"That part would be new to me too," said Sandy. "Here we have no selling; we do not even auction off our own wool, as you see, for our clip goes direct to our owners. But when a ranch sells its wool to other buyers the manager has lively days, I can tell you. Both Anchor and Star Ranch sell to brokers. They send out word that they have wool for sale and the Eastern buyers swarm here like flies. They bid on the wool—bid right against each other, even though sometimes they are the best of friends. The men get an idea of the price they want to pay by looking over the fleeces and seeing how they will grade up. Above everything else a wool buyer must have a trained eye, quick to detect the quality of the shipment offered for sale. That is what decides him on how high he will bid. After the buyers have got up to what they consider a reasonable price they stop bidding. The wool-grower must then accept the highest bid."

"But he may not be satisfied with the price," put in Donald.

"It makes no difference. They are supposed to make a fair bid on the clip."

"What if he shouldn't take it?"

"Why, then all the brokers who have bid on the wool leave town pledging each other not to bid on that particular shipment of wool for two weeks," replied Sandy.

"Why?" inquired Donald, opening his eyes.

"It is to protect the brokers. You can see the justice in it when you think a moment. These Easterners are busy men and they come a long way. They can't take a trip to some far-off ranch only to find the wool-grower has decided not to sell his fleeces; or that he will not sell them below a certain price. If a man really does not want to sell he must not get the buyers there; if he does he must be content with what they offer. Your father would have to buy his wool this way if he did not own Crescent Ranch; and even so he may send men to buy wool at outside ranches too, for all I know."

"I am going to ask him," Donald said.

"Do not ask him now. He might not want to talk his business over here. Wait until you get back East."

"I hate to think of going back home, Sandy," the boy declared, regret in his tones.

"All good things must come to an end, lad. You will go back, finish your schooling, go to college as your father wishes, and then, a gentleman grown, you will be choosing some work."

Sandy studied Donald keenly.

"Yes, I suppose that is just what I shall do. I am thinking some of studying law, Sandy."

The Scotchman's face fell, but Donald did not notice it.

"I've always thought I should like to stand up in court and make a great plea—a speech that would sweep people off their feet," went on Donald. "Or," he added reflectively, "I may be a judge."

Sandy scratched his head.

"There's a good bit step between studying law and being a judge," said he.

"Perhaps after all I may decide not to be a judge," ruminated Donald. "I have always wanted to manage a baseball team and I may think I would rather do that."

"Go on with you!" Sandy cried. "Next you'll be having yourself a lighthouse-keeper." Then he added wistfully: "But no matter what you are, laddie, dinna forget Crescent Ranch."