THE THREE HUNDREDTH SHEEP

Then he overheard the old man, Wiremu, saying, “Look, the fiend is nearly asleep! Stir him up, oh friends!’

And he thought, “The old man, my ancient relative! The old codger might beat me … It might be me who will break and not the old man … That won't happen, I won't break until three hundred has been reached, yes, until it is reached.”

There is one sheep left. The woolshed resounds with the cheering, “You'll do it, Taawhaki! Take it easy now or you'll cut the throat of that sheep! Now fetch that last one. That one is Kuia. Yes, now go steadily, steady, steady.”

All Taawhaki's friends had knocked off work. They had all gathered to watch their champion, to urge him on, to talk to him, to praise him. They would aid him with their voices and their cheers. Taawhaki laboured on. His great weariness was plain to see. His shearing hand travelled slowly as though carrying a great weight. His face was flushed red and the perspiration flowed from his skin. He laboured and he laboured and at last he finished. He pulled the rope to stop the machine. Out went the sheep and down fell Taawhaki!

The house rumbled with the cheering and clapping of everyone, so glad were they he had actually reached his first three hundred. But the champion heard not a sound of it. The expert shearer lay flat on his back! He was asleep.