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.
"Now, look-a-here," cried the tramp from the tree, in the voice of a very ill-used person, "ain't you goin' to fasten up that dog, and let me git down ?" I walked up close to the tree and addressed him.
"No," said I, "I am not.

When a man comes to my place, bullies a young girl who was about to relieve his hunger, and then boldly determines to enter my house and help himself to my property, I don't propose to fasten up any dog that may happen to be after him.