than ever.

Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes 'e hid
'imself near Bob's house, and at last one night, when 'e was crouching
behind the fence of Frederick Scott's front garden, 'e saw Bob Pretty
come out of 'is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the road.
He held 'is breath as Bob passed 'im, and was just getting up to foller
'im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing.

"Wot a delicious smell o' roses!" he ses, out loud.

He stood in the middle o' the road nearly opposite where the keeper was
hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha' 'eard him the other end o' the
village.

"It can't be roses," he ses, in a puzzled voice, "be-cos there ain't no
roses hereabouts, and, besides, it's late for 'em. It must be Mr. Cutts,
the clever new keeper."

He put his 'ead over the fence and bid 'im good evening, and said wot a
fine night for a stroll it was, and asked 'im whether 'e was waiting for
Frederick Scott's aunt. Mr. Cutts didn't answer 'im a word; 'e was
pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook 'is fist in Bob
Pretty's face, and then 'e went off stamping down the road as if 'e was
going mad.

And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to 'ave all the luck on 'is side.
Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which 'e put down to sitting about
night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while 'e was in
the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in