Carl was sharp enough,
however, to doubt the genuineness of Mr. Stuyvesant's
claims to aristocratic lineage. Meanwhile he blamed
himself for being so easily duped by an artful adventurer.
To be sure, it was not as bad as it might be.
His pocketbook only contained ten dollars in small bills.
The balance of his money he had deposited for safe keeping
in the inside pocket of his vest. This he had placed
under his pillow, and so it had escaped the notice of the thief.
The satchel contained a supply of shirts,
underclothing, etc., and he was sorry to lose it.
The articles were not expensive, but it would cost
him from a dozen to fifteen dollars to replace them.
Carl stepped to the door of his stateroom
and called a servant who was standing near.
"How long have we been at the pier?" he asked.
"About twenty minutes, sir."
"Did you see my roommate go out?"
"A tall young man in a light overcoat?"
"Yes."
"Yes, sir. I saw him."
"Did you notice whether he carried a valise in his hand?"
"A gripsack? Yes, sir."
"A small one?"
"Yes, sir."
"It was mine."
"You don't say so, sir! And such a respectable-
lookin' gemman, sir."
"He may have looked respectable, but he was
a thief all the same."
"You don't say? Did he take anything else, sir?"
"He took my pocketbook."
"Well, well! He was a rascal, sure!
But maybe it dropped on the floor."
Carl turned his attention to the carpet, but
saw nothing of the lost pocketbook. He did
find, however, a small book in a brown cover,
which Stuyvesant had probably dropped.
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