George went slowly down the stairs, bathing in the delicious thrills of unfolding the wrappings from about his great idea. He had yet had time but to feel its shape and hug it as a child will feel and hug a doll packed in paper. Now he stripped the coverings, and his pulses thumped as he saw how fine was it. Almost unconscious to his actions he unbarred the door; stepped into the thin light; was not aroused until, treading upon Mr. Fletcher's musket, his idea was suddenly jolted from him. Here the gun that gave the echoes; where the hand that started it? A hoarse cry came to him: “Mr. George! Mr. George!” He looked along the sound. Above a hedge below the lawn an apple-tree raised its branches. Within them he could espy a dark mass that as he approached took form. Mr. Fletcher. The grass hushed George's footsteps. Rounding the hedge he came upon the little drama that gave that note of dread to Mr. Fletcher's calls. Beneath the gardener's armpits one branch of the apple-tree passed; behind his knees another. Between them hung his heavy seat. Whitely a square of it peered downwards; melancholy upon the sward lay the lid of corduroy that should have warmed the space. For ten paces outwards from the tree-trunk there stretched a pitted path. Abiram, as George came, turned at this path's extremity; set his sloe eye upon the dull white patch in Mr. Fletcher's stern; hurled forward up the track; sprang and snapped jaws an inch below the mark as Mr. Fletcher mightily heaved. A lesser dog would have yapped bafflement, fruitlessly scratched upwards from hind legs. Abiram was perfect dog of the one breed of dog that is in all things perfect. Silently he plodded back; turned; ran; leapt again. Again Mr. Fletcher heaved, and again the fine jaws snapped an inch beneath the pallid square of flesh. As once more uncomplaining he turned, Abiram sighted George; ruffled. George spoke his name. Abiram wagged that short tail that marked his Champion Victor Wild blood, shook the skull that spoke to the same mighty strain. 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.”