e my sowl," says
he, "if I put your Holiness undher the table, you won't be the first
Pope I floored."

Well, his Holiness laughed like to split; for, you know, Pope was
the great Prodesan that Father Tom put down upon Purgathory; and ov
coorse they knewn all the ins and outs of the conthravarsy at Room.
"Faix, Thomaus," says he, smiling across the table at him mighty
agreeable--"it's no lie what they tell me, that yourself is the pleasant
man over the dhrop ov good liquor."

"Would you like to thry?" says his Riv'rence.

"Sure, and amn't I thrying all I can?" says the Pope. "Sorra betther
bottle ov wine's betuxt this and Salamancha, nor's there fornenst you on
the table; it's raal Lachrymalchrystal, every spudh ov it."

"It's mortial could," says Father Tom.

"Well, man alive," says the Pope, "sure and here's the best ov good
claret in the cut decanther."

"Not maning to make little ov the claret, your Holiness," says his
Riv'rence, "I would prefir some hot wather and sugar, wid a glass ov
spirits through it, if convanient."

"Hand me over the bottle of brandy," says the Pope to his head butler,
"and fetch up the materi'ls," says he.

"Ah, then, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, mighty eager, "maybe
you'd have a dhrop ov the native in your cellar? Sure it's all one
throuble," says he, "and, troth, I dunna how it is, but brandy always
plays the puck wid my inthrails."

"'Pon my conscience, then," says the Pope, "it's very sorry I am,
Misther Maguire," says he, "that it isn't in my power to plase you; for
I'm sure and certaint that there's not as much whisky in Room this
blessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge."

"Well, in troth, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "I knewn there was no
use in axing; only," says he, "I didn't know how else to exqueeze the
liberty I tuck," says he, "of bringing a small taste," says he, "of the
real stuff," says he, hauling out an imperi'l quart bottle out ov his
coat-pocket; "that never seen the face of a gauger," says he, setting it
down on the table fornenst the Pope: "and if you'll jist thry the full
ov a thimble ov it, and it doesn't rise the cockles of your Holiness's
heart, why then, my name," says he, "isn't Tom Maguire!" and wid that he
outs wid the cork.

Well, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at Father Tom for
fetching dhrink that a way in his pocket, as if there wasn't lashins in
the house: so says he, "Misther Maguire," says he, "I'd have you to
com