Poquelin, and asking for him every possible courtesy. He handed it to
him, instructing him where to present it.

"Mr. Poquelin," he said with a conciliatory smile, "tell me, is it your
house that our Creole citizens tell such odd stories about?"

The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, and with immovable features
said:

"You don't see me trade some Guinea nigga'?"

"Oh, no."

"You don't see me make some smuggling"

"No, sir; not at all."

"But, I am Jean Marie Poquelin. I mine me hown bizniss. Dat all right?
Adieu."

He put his hat on and withdrew. By and by he stood, letter in hand,
before the person to whom it was addressed. This person employed an
interpreter.

"He says," said the interpreter to the officer, "he come to make you the
fair warning how you muz not make the street pas' at his 'ouse."

The officer remarked that "such impudence was refreshing;" but the
experienced interpreter translated freely.