One day, in the following spring, I was riding home from the
station with Euphemia,--we seldom took pleasure-drives now, we were
so busy on the place,--and as we reached the house I heard the dog
barking savagely. He was loose in the little orchard by the side
of the house. As I drove in, Pomona came running to the carriage.

"Man up the tree!" she shouted.

I helped Euphemia out, left the horse standing by the door, and ran
to the dog, followed by my wife and Pomona. Sure enough, there was
a man up the tree, and Lord Edward was doing his best to get at
him, springing wildly at the tree and fairly shaking with rage.

I looked up at the man, he was a thoroughbred tramp, burly, dirty,
generally unkempt, but, unlike most tramps, he looked very much
frightened. His position, on a high crotch of an apple-tree, was
not altogether comfortable, and although, for the present, it was
safe, the fellow seemed to have a wavering faith in the strength of
apple-tree branches, and the moment he saw me, he earnestly
besought me to take that dog away, and let him down.

I made no answer, but turning to Pomona, I asked her what this all
meant.

"Why, sir, you see," said she, "I was in the kitchen bakin' pies,
and this fellow must have got over the fence at the side of the
house, for the dog didn't see him, and the first thing I know'd he
was stickin' his head in the window, and he asked me to give him
somethin' to eat. And when I said I'd see in a minute if there was
anything for him, he says to me, 'Gim me a piece of one of them