There will be
grass walks, Mr. Betteredge, I promise you, in my garden. And as for the
white moss rose----"
"The de'il a bit ye'll get the white moss rose to grow, unless you bud
him on the dogue-rose first," cried a voice at the window.
We both turned round. There was the everlasting Mr. Begbie, too eager
for the controversy to wait any longer at the gate. The Sergeant wrung
my hand, and darted out into the court-yard, hotter still on his side.
"Ask him about the moss rose, when he comes back, and see if I have left
him a leg to stand on!" cried the great Cuff, hailing me through the
window in his turn. "Gentlemen, both!" I answered, moderating them again
as I had moderated them once already.
"In the matter of the moss rose there is a great deal to be said on
both sides!" I might as well (as the Irish say) have whistled jigs to
a milestone. Away they went together, fighting the battle of the roses
without asking or giving quarter on either side. The last I saw of them,
Mr. Begbie was shaking his obstinate head, and Sergeant Cuff had got him
by the arm like a prisoner in charge. Ah, well! well! I own I couldn't
help liking the Sergeant--though I hated him all the time.
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