“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 the _odd accidents_ which
      are continually astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my
      venturing to express my total incredulity in respect to his
      pretensions, he grew very angry indeed, so that at length I
      considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at all, and let him
      have his own way. He talked on, therefore, at great length, while
      I merely leaned back in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused
      myself with munching raisins and filliping the stems about the
      room. But, by and by, the Angel suddenly construed this behavior
      of mine into contempt. He arose in a terrible passion, slouched
      his funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a
      threat of some character which I did not precisely comprehend,
      and finally made me a low bow and departed, wishing me, in the
      language of the archbishop in Gil-Blas, “_beaucoup de bonheur et
      un peu plus de bon sens_.”

      His departure afforded me relief. The _very_ few glasses of
      Lafitte that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy,
      and I felt inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty
      minutes, as is my custom after dinner. At six I had an
      appointment of consequence, which it was quite indispensable that
      I should keep. The policy of insurance for my dwelling house had
      expired the day before; and, some dispute having arisen, it was
      agreed that, at six, I should meet the board of directors of the
      company and settle the terms of a renewal. Glancing upward at the
      clock on the mantel-piece, (for I felt too drowsy to take out my
      watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five
      minutes to spare. It was half past five; I could easily walk to
      the insurance office in five minutes; and my usual siestas had
      never been known to exceed five and twenty. I felt sufficiently
      safe, therefore, and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith. Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward
      the time-piece and was half inclined to believe in the
      possibility of odd accidents when I found that, instead of my
      ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three;
      for it still wanted seven and twenty of the appointed hour. I
      betook myself again to my nap, and at length a second time awoke,
      when, to my utter amazement, it _still_ wanted twenty-seven
      minutes of six. I jumped up to examine the clock, and found that
      it had ceased running. My watch informed me that it was half past
      seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, I was too late for
      my appointment. “It will make no difference,” I said: “I can call
      at the office in the morning and apologize; in the meantime what
      can be the matter with the clock?” Upon examining it I discovered
      that one of the raisin stems which I had been filliping about the
      room during the discourse of the Angel of the Odd, had flown
      through the fractured crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in
      the key-hole, with an end projecting outward, had thus arrested
      the revolution of the minute hand. “Ah!” said I, “I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A
      natural accident, such as _will_ happen now and then!”

      I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour
      retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand
      at the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages
      of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” I unfortunately fell asleep
      in less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was. My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of
      the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside
      the curtains, and, in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum
      puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the
      contempt with which I had treated him. He concluded a long
      harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my
      gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer,
      which he poured, in a continuous flood, from one of the long
      necked bottles that stood him instead of an arm.