This dog expected in his human friends that same devotion to duty which is the governing trait of his breed. His shake implied, “No time for social niceties, sir. I have a job in hand.”
“Call 'im off, Mr. George,” Mr. Fletcher implored. “Call 'im—ur!”—he heaved upward as Abiram again sprang—“off,” he concluded, sinking once more as the bull-terrier trotted up the little path.
It was a fascinating scene. “You're quite safe,” George told him.
“Safe! I'm tired! I can't keep on risin' and fallin' all night. It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a—ur!” He heaved again.
George told him: “You do it awfully well, though; so neat.”
“Call 'im off,” Mr. Fletcher moaned. “He'll have me in a minute. He's 'ad a bit off of me calf; he's 'ad a piece out of me trousers. He'll go on. He's a methodical dog—ur!”
George took a step; caught Abiram's collar. “How on earth did you get up there?”
“Jumped.”
“Jumped! You couldn't jump up there!”
Mr. Fletcher took a look to see that Abiram was securely held; then started to wriggle to a pose of greater comfort. “I'd jump a house with that 'orror after me,” he said bitterly. By intricate squirmings he laid a hand upon the cold patch of flesh that gazed starkly downwards from his stern. “If I ain't got hydrophobia I've got frost-bite,” he moaned. “Cruel draught I've had through this 'ole. Take 'im off, Mr. George.”