Away the couple plodded. As they approached the clump they saw that a road had been partly sunk in front of it; and as they drew nearer they saw a man sodding a terrace which sloped from the ridge to the road.
“That’s not right,” said another man, who was looking on. “That sod must be laid more securely, or the first rain will wash it away. I’ll show you how to do it. See here.”
“Agnes Dinon!” exclaimed Margie, in a tone which suggested that a mouse, or at least a snake, was in close proximity. “Do you hear that voice?—do you see that man? Do you know who he is? That is the elegant Mr. Marge.”
Miss Dinon manifested surprise, but she quickly whispered,—
“Sh-h-h! Yes, I knew he was here, looking after the company’s interests. He is one of the directors, you know.”
“Yes, I know; but see his hat and his clothes,—and his brown hands. This is simply killing! Oh, if I had crayons and paper, or, better still, a camera! The girls at home won’t believe me when I tell them: they’ll think it too utterly preposterous.”
“Why should you tell them?” asked Agnes, turning away. “Isn’t it entirely honorable for a man to be caring for his own and fulfilling his trust, especially when so valuable a property as this is demands his attention?”
“Yes, yes, you dear old thing; but——”
“Sh-h!” whispered Agnes, for just then Marge climbed the slope and appeared a little way in front of them, shouting back at the man,—
“Cut your next sod here: this seems to have thicker grass.”