“No cork could be dhrew with less noise,” says his Riv’rence.
“It would be hard for anything to be less nor nothing, barring algebra,” says the Pope.
“I can prove to the conthrary,” says his Riv’rence. “This glass ov whisky is less nor that tumbler ov punch, and that tumbler of punch is nothing to this jug ov scaltheen.”
“Do you judge by superficial misure or by the liquid contents?” says the Pope.
“Don’t stop me betwixt my premisses and my conclusion,” says his Riv’rence; “Ergo, this glass ov whisky is less nor nothing; and for that raison I see no harm in life in adding it to the contents ov the same jug, just by way ov a frost-nail.”
“Adding what’s less nor nothing,” says the Pope, “is subtraction 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 minits 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 of 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.”