Well, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at Father Tom for fetching dhrink thataway in his pocket, as if there wasn't lashins in the house: so says he, "Misther Maguire," says he, "I'd have you to comprehind the differ betuxt an invitation to dinner from the succissor ov Saint Pether, and from a common mayur or a Prodesan squireen that maybe hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet more nor his own heretical whistle. That may be the way wid them that you visit in Leithrim," says he, "and in Roscommon; and I'd let you know the differ in the prisint case," says he, "only that you're a champion of the Church and entitled to laniency. So," says he, "as the liquor's come, let it stay. And in troth I'm curis myself," says he, getting mighty soft when he found the delightful smell ov the putteen, "in invistigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch of natural philosophy," says he, taking up the bottle and putting it to his blessed nose. Ah! my dear, the very first snuff he got ov it, he cried out, the dear man: "Blessed Vargin, but it has the divine smell!" and crossed himself and the bottle half-a-dozen times running.
"Well, sure enough, it's the blessed liquor now," says his Riv'rence, "and so there can be no harm any way in mixing a dandy ov punch; and," says he, stirring up the materi'ls with his goolden muddler—for everything at the Pope's table, to the very schrew for drawing the corks, was ov vergin goold—"if I might make bould," says he, "to spake on so deep a subjic afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably facilitate the invistigation ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if you'd jist thry the laste sup in life ov it inwardly."
"Well, then, suppose I do make the same expiriment," says the Pope, in a much more condiscinding way nor you'd have expected—and wid that he mixes himself a real stiff facer.
"Now, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "this bein' the first time you ever dispinsed them chymicals," says he, "I'll just make bould to lay down one rule of orthography," says he, "for conwhounding them, secundem mortem."
"What's that?" says the Pope.
"Put in the sperits first," says his Riv'rence; "and then put in the sugar; and remember, every dhrop ov wather you put in after that spoils the punch."
"Glory be to God!" says the Pope, not minding a word Father Tom was saying. "Glory be to God!" says he, smacking his lips. "I never knewn what dhrink was afore," says he. "It bates the Lachrymalchrystal out of the face!" says he—"it's Necthar itself, it is, so it is!" says he, wiping his epistolical mouth wid the cuff ov his coat.
"'Pon my secret honor," says his Riv'rence, "I'm raally glad to see your Holiness set so much to your satisfaction; especially," says he, "as, for fear ov accidents, I tuck the liberty ov fetching the fellow ov that small vesshel," says he, "in my other coat pocket. So divil a fear ov our running dhry till the but-end ov the evening, anyhow," says he.
"Dhraw your stool in to the fire, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "for faix," says he, "I'm bent on analysing the metaphwysics ov this phinomenon. Come, man alive, clear off," says he, "you're not dhrinking at all."