Upon this I made an effort to get up, in order to put my threat into execution; but the ruffian just reached across the table very deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the neck of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the arm-chair from which I had half arisen.  I was utterly astounded; and, for a moment, was quite at a loss what to do.  In the meantime, he continued his talk.

“You zee,” said he, “it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you shall know who I pe.  Look at me! zee!  I am te Angel ov te Odd.”

“And odd enough, too,” I ventured to reply; “but I was always under the impression that an angel had wings.”

“Te wing!” he cried, highly incensed, “vat I pe do mit te wing?  Mein Gott! do you take me vor a shicken?”

“No — oh no!” I replied, much alarmed, “you are no chicken — certainly not.”

“Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I’ll rap you again mid me vist.  It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing, und te imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing.  Te angel ab not te wing, and I am te Angel ov te Odd.”

    “And your business with me at present is — is” —

“My pizzness!” ejaculated the thing, “vy vat a low bred buppy you mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!”

This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an angel; so, plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay within reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder.  Either he dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I accomplished was the demolition of the crystal which protected the dial of the clock upon the mantel-piece.  As for the Angel, he evinced his sense of my assault by giving me two or three hard consecutive raps upon the forehead as before.  These reduced me at once to submission, and I am almost ashamed to confess that either through pain or vexation, there came a few tears into my eyes.

“Mein Gott!” said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened at my distress; “mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry zorry.  You mos not trink it so strong — you mos put te water in te wine.  Here, trink dis, like a goot veller, und don’t gry now — don’t!”

Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was about a third full of Port) with a colorless fluid that he poured from one of his hand bottles.  I observed that these bottles had labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed “Kirschenwasser.”

The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my Port more than once, I at length regained sufficient temper to listen to his very extraordinary discourse.  I cannot pretend to recount all that he told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was the genius who presided over the contretemps of mankind, and whose business it was to bring about