It was a fascinating scene. "You're quite safe," George told him.
"Safe! I'm _tired!_ I can't keep on risin' and fallin' ail 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."
George was scarcely listening. His thoughts had returned to the
delicious task of fingering his great idea.
"Take 'im off, Mr. George," Mr. Fletcher implored.
George passed a handkerchief under Abiram's collar; tugged for the
gate; there dispatched the dog down the road.
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