The agent now began to be frightened, and shut up his book.
“If you only could see the plates, sir, I'm sure—”
“Are you ready?” I cried, as the dog, excited by Pomona's wild shouts, made a bolt in his direction.
“Good-day, if I must—” said the agent, as he hurried to the gate. But there he stopped.
“There is nothing, sir,” he said, “that would so improve your place as a row of the Spitzenberg Sweet-scented Balsam fir along this fence. I'll sell you three-year-old trees—”
“He's loose!” I shouted, as I dropped the chain.
In a second the agent was on the other side of the gate. Lord Edward made a dash toward him; but, stopping suddenly, flew back to the tree of the tramp.
“If you should conclude, sir,” said the tree-agent, looking over the fence, “to have a row of those firs along here—”
“My good sir,” said I, “there is no row of firs there now, and the fence is not very high. My dog, as you see, is very much excited and I cannot answer for the consequences if he takes it into his head to jump over.”
The tree-agent turned and walked slowly away.