"We will concede the point. Sir, what do you want?" the Pontiff said.
Then the virtuous Jerry also began to flounder. Want? Eh, but he wanted several things.
"Name them:" the Pope commanded.
"Well:—reparation—damages."
"For what?" the Pope inquired.
"For ma loss of time whiles I've had to be here and for ma business which Ye may say's gone ta th dogs; and for the loss of ma Liblab Fellowship."
"To what extent have you suffered?"
"To fhat extent? Well, I'll let Ye know. I've been here since last July, say eight months, say forty weeks, say three hundred days; and I take ordinarily a pound-note per day on journeys for expenses: but it's cost me a heap more than that this trip. Ye can call it five hundred pounds for out-of-pocket expenses. Then there's ma business which I've had to neglect, eight months, better say a year at one-fifty for salary, and commissions—say another fifty. There's eight hundreds. Then they've had the cheek to expel me as a Fellowshipper, as I suppose Ye've heard. Of course that's very damaging to ma prestige, say to the extent of a couple of thousands. Fhat's that come to? Two thousands eight hundreds—may as well call it three thousands. And of course there's fhat old Krooger named moral and intellectual damage—I don't know fhat tae pit that at, I'm sure—but Ye might tot it all up together and call it twenty thousands."
"And your companion?"
"Aweel, Ye'd better double it and we'll both ca' quits. Forty thousands cash!"