“You’ll have no fractions at my side, anyhow,” says the Pope. “Faix, I’m afeared,” says he, “it’s only too asy ov solution our sum is like to be.”
“Never fear for that,” says his Riv’rence, “I’ve a good stock of 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 coefficient, and we’ll thry,” says the Pope.
“Hand me over the exponent, then,” says his Riv’rence.
“What’s that?” says the Pope.
“The shcrew, to be sure,” says his Riv’rence.
“What for?” says the Pope.
“To dhraw the cork,” says his Riv’rence.