[Dark Saint Alaick]

"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, miséricorde! Ah, mon dieu, je suis abîmé. 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 Ã* 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.