“Are you in arnest that it is in fun you wor?” says the Pope.
“May I never die if I amn’t,” says his Riv’rence. “It was all to provoke your Holiness to commit a brache ov the Latin that I tuck the small liberties I did,” says he.
“I’d have you to take care,” says the Pope, “how you take sich small liberties again, or maybe you’ll provoke me to commit a brache ov the pace.”
“Well, and if I did,” says his Riv’rence, “I know a sartain preparation ov chemicals that’s very good for curing a brache either in Latinity or frindship.”
“What’s that?” says the Pope, quite mollified, and sitting down again at the table that he had ris from in the first pluff of his indignation. “What’s that?” says he, “for, ’pon my Epistolical ’davy, I think it ’udn’t be asy to bate this miraclous mixthir that we’ve been thrying to anilize this two hours back,” says he, taking a mighty scientifical swig out ov the bottom ov his tumbler.
“It’s good for a beginning,” says his Riv’rence; “it lays a very nate foundation for more sarious operation: but we’re now arrived at a pariod of the evening when it’s time to proceed wid our shuper-structhure by compass and square, like free and excipted masons as we both are.”
My time’s up for the present; but I’ll tell you the rest in the evening at home.