"Adding what's less nor nothing," says the Pope, "is subthraction according to algebra; so here goes to make the rule good," says he, filling his tumbler wid the blessed stuff, and sitting down again at the table, for the anger didn't stay two minutes on him, the good-hearted ould sowl.
"Two minuses makes one plus," says his Riv'rence, as ready as you plase, "and that'll account for the increased daycrement I mane to take the liberty ov producing in the same mixed quantity," says he, follying his Holiness's epistolical example.
"By all that's good," says the Pope, "that's the best stuff I ever tasted; you call it a mixed quantity, but I say it's prime."
"Since it's ov the first ordher, then," says his Riv'rence, "we'll have the less deffeequilty in reducing it to a simple equation."
"You'll have no fractions at my side, anyhow," says the Pope. "Faix, I'm afeard," says he, "it's only too aisy ov solution our sum is like to be."
"Never fear for that," says his Riv'rence, "I've a good stock ov surds here in the bottle; for I tell you it will take us a long time to exthract the root ov it, at the rate we're going on."
"What makes you call the blessed quart an irrational quantity?" says the Pope.
"Becase it's too much for one, and too little for two," says his Riv'rence.
"Clear it ov its co-efficient, and we'll thry," says the Pope.
"Hand me over the exponent, then," says his Riv'rence.