"True for you, Master Strammers," cried Paddy enthusiastically. It is in the way of being a good thing. There you are now. Ay, that 's it. A good thing! Sure."
"Ay," said Strammers, deeply moved by this appreciation, which he had believed should always have existed. "Ay, I spoke well."
"Well would be no name for it," responded Paddy fervidly. "By gor, and I wish you were knowing Father Corrigan. He would be the only man to near match you. 'A quiet draught o' old ale is a good thing,' says you, and by the piper 't is hard to say Father Corrigan could have done it that handily. 'T is you that are a wonderful man."
"I have a small way o' my own," said Strammers, "which even some of the best gardeners has accounted most wise and humorous. The power o' good speech be a great gift." Whereupon the complacent Strammers lifted his arm and buried more than half his face in his quart pot.
"It is," said Paddy earnestly. "And I 'm doubting if even the best gardeners would be able to improve it. And says you: 'A quiet draught o' old ale is a good thing.' 'T would take a grand gardener to beat that word."
"And besides the brisk way of giving a word now and then," continued the deluded Strammers, "I am a great man with flowers. Some of the finest beds in London are there in my master's park."
"Are they so?" said Paddy. "I would be liking to see them."
"And ye shall," cried the gardener with an outburst of generous feeling. "So ye shall. On a Sun-
