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“Only one hundred apiece for these sixty valuable lots—only one
hundred—going—going—going—gone!”

Monsieur Poopoo was the fortunate possessor. The auctioneer
congratulated him—the sale closed—and the company dispersed.

“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” said Poopoo, as the auctioneer descended
his pedestal, “you shall excusez-moi, if I shall go to votre
bureau, your counting-house, ver quick to make every ting sure wid
respec to de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege. Von leetle bird in
de hand he vorth two in de tree, c’est vrai—eh?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Vell den, allons.”

And the gentlemen repaired to the counting-house, where the six
thousand dollars were paid, and the deeds of the property delivered.
Monsieur Poopoo put these carefully in his pocket, and as he was about
taking his leave, the auctioneer made him a present of the
lithographic outline of the lots, which was a very liberal thing on
his part, considering the map was a beautiful specimen of that
glorious art. Poopoo could not admire it sufficiently. There were his
sixty lots, as uniform as possible, and his little gray eyes sparkled
like diamonds as they wandered from one end of the spacious sheet to
the other.

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.

“Monsieur, I have much plaisir to fin’ you, chez vous, at home.”

“Ah, Poopoo! glad to see you. Take a seat, old boy.”