“Interroga circumcirca,” says his Riv’rence.
“Abi ex ædibus meis,” says the Pope.
“Abi tu in malem crucem,” says his Riv’rence.
“Excumnicabo te,” says the Pope.
“Diabolus curat,” says his Riv’rence.
“Anathema sis,” says the Pope.
“Oscula meum pod,”—says his Riv’rence—but, my dear, afore he could finish what he was going to say, the Pope broke out into the vernacular, “Get out o’ my house, you reprobate!” says he in sich a rage that he could contain himself widin the Latin no longer.
“Ha, ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho!” says his Riv’rence, “Who’s the hare now, your Holiness? Oh, by this and by that, I’ve sacked you clane! Clane and clever I’ve done it, and no mistake! You see what a bit ov desate will do wid the wisest, your Holiness—sure it was joking I was, on purpose to aggrawate you—all’s fair, you know, in love, law, and conthravarsy. In troth if I’d thought you’d have taken it so much to heart, I’d have put my head into the fire afore I’d have said a word to offind you,” says he, for he seen that the Pope was very vexed. “Sure, God forbid that I’d say anything agin your Holiness, barring it was in fun: for aren’t you the father ov the faithful, and the thrue vicar ov God upon earth? And amn’t I ready to go down on my two knees this blessed minit and beg your apostolical pardon for every word that I said to your displasement?”