Poopoo’s heart was as light as a feather, and he snapped his fingers in the very wantonness of joy as he repaired to Delmonico’s, and ordered the first good French dinner that had gladdened his palate since his arrival in America.

After having discussed his repast, and washed it down with a bottle of choice old claret, he resolved upon a visit to Long Island to view his purchase.  He consequently immediately hired a horse and gig, crossed the Brooklyn ferry, and drove along the margin of the river to the Wallabout, the location in question.

Our friend, however, was not a little perplexed to find his property.  Everything on the map was as fair and even as possible, while all the grounds about him were as undulated as they could well be imagined, and there was an elbow of the East River thrusting itself quite into the ribs of the land, which seemed to have no business there.  This puzzled the Frenchman exceedingly; and, being a stranger in those parts, he called to a farmer in an adjacent field.

“Mon ami, are you acquaint vid dis part of de country—­eh?”

“Yes, I was born here, and know every inch of it.”

“Ah, c’est bien, dat vill do,” and the Frenchman got out of the gig, tied the horse, and produced his lithographic map.

“Den maybe you vill have de kindness to show me de sixty lot vich I have bought, vid de valuarble vatare privalege?”

The farmer glanced his eye over the paper.

“Yes, sir, with pleasure; if you will be good enough to get into my boat, I will row you out to them!”

“Vat dat you say, sure?”

“My friend,” said the farmer, “this section of Long Island has recently been bought up by the speculators of New York, and laid out for a great city; but the principal street is only visible at low tide.  When this part of the East River is filled up, it will be just there.  Your lots, as you will perceive, are beyond it; and are now all under water.”

At first the Frenchman was incredulous.  He could not believe his senses.  As the facts, however, gradually broke upon him, he shut one eye, squinted obliquely at the heavens—–­the river—­the farmer—­and then he turned away and squinted at them all over again!  There was his purchase sure enough; but then it could not be perceived for there was a river flowing over it!  He drew a box from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, with an emphatic knock upon the lid, took a pinch of snuff and restored it to his waistcoat pocket as before.  Poopoo was evidently in trouble, having “thoughts which often lie too deep for tears”; and, as his grief was also too big for words, he untied his horse, jumped into his gig, and returned to the auctioneer in hot haste.

It was near night when he arrived at the auction-room—­his horse in a foam and himself in a fury.  The auctioneer was leaning back in his chair, with his legs stuck out of a low window, quietly smoking a cigar after the labors of the day, and humming the music from the last new opera.