“Monsieur, I have much plaisir to fin’ you, chez vous, at home.”

“Ah, Poopoo! glad to see you.  Take a seat, old boy.”

“But I shall not take de seat, sare.”

“No—­why, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, beaucoup de matter.  I have been to see de gran lot vot you sell me to-day.”

“Well, sir, I hope you like your purchase?”

“No, monsieur, I no like him.”

“I’m sorry for it; but there is no ground for your complaint.”

“No, sare; dare is no ground at all—­de ground is all vatare!”

“You joke!”

“I no joke.  I nevare joke; je n’entends pas la raillerie, Sare, voulez-vous have de kindness to give me back de money vot I pay!”

“Certainly not.”

“Den vill you be so good as to take de East River off de top of my lot?”

“That’s your business, sir, not mine.”

“Den I make von mauvaise affaire—­von gran mistake!”

“I hope not.  I don’t think you have thrown your money away in the land.”

“No, sare; but I tro it avay in de vatare!”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Yes, sare, but it is your fault.  You’re von ver gran rascal to swindle me out of de l’argent.”

“Hello, old Poopoo, you grow personal; and if you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, you must go out of my counting-room.”

“Vare shall I go to, eh?”

“To the devil, for aught I care, you foolish old Frenchman!” said the auctioneer, waxing warm.

“But, sare, I vill not go to de devil to oblige you!” replied the Frenchman, waxing warmer.  “You sheat me out of all de dollar vot I make in Shatham Street; but I vill not go to de devil for all dat.  I vish you may go to de devil yourself you dem yankee-doo-dell, and I vill go and drown myself, tout de suite, right avay.”

“You couldn’t make a better use of your water privileges, old boy!”

“Ah, misericorde! Ah, mon dieu, je suis abime.  I am ruin!  I am done up!  I am break all into ten sousan leetle pieces!  I am von lame duck, and I shall vaddle across de gran ocean for Paris, vish is de only valuarble vatare privalege dat is left me a present!”

Poor Poopoo was as good as his word.  He sailed in the next packet, and arrived in Paris almost as penniless as the day he left it.

Should any one feel disposed to doubt the veritable circumstances here recorded, let him cross the East River to the Wallabout, and farmer J——­ will row him out to the very place where the poor Frenchman’s lots still remain under water.

THE ANGEL OF THE ODD

[From The Columbian Magazine, October, 1844.]

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849)