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. Picking it up, he discovered that it was a bank book on the Sixpenny Savings Bank of Albany, standing in the name of Rachel Norris, and numbered 17,310.
“This is stolen property, too,” thought Carl. “I wonder if there is much in it.”
Opening the book he saw that there were three entries, as follows: 1883. Jan. 23. Five hundred dollars. “ June 10. Two hundred dollars. “ Oct. 21. One hundred dollars.
There was besides this interest credited to the amount of seventy-five dollars. The deposits, therefore, made a grand total of $875.
No doubt Mr. Stuyvesant had stolen this book, but had not as yet found an opportunity of utilizing it.
“What’s dat?” asked the colored servant.
“A savings bank book. My roommate must have dropped it. It appears to belong to a lady named Rachel Norris. I wish I could get it to her.”
“Is she an Albany lady, sir?”
“I don’t know.”
“You might look in the directory.”
“So I will. It is a good idea.”
“I hope the gemman didn’t take all your money, sir.”
“No; he didn’t even take half of it. I only wish I had been awake when the boat got to the dock.”
“I would have called you, sir, if you had asked me.”
“I am not much used to traveling. I shall know better next time what to do.”
The finding of the bank book partially consoled Carl for the loss of his pocketbook and gripsack. He was glad to be able to defeat Stuyvesant in one of his nefarious schemes, and to be the instrument of returning Miss Norris her savings bank book.
When he left the boat he walked along till he reached a modest-looking hotel, where he thought the charges would be reasonable. He entered, and, going to the desk, asked if he could have a room.
“Large or small?” inquired the clerk.
“Small.”
“No. 67. Will you go up now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any baggage?”
“No; I had it stolen on the boat.”
The clerk looked a little suspicious.
“We must require pay in advance, then,” he said.
“Certainly,” answered Carl, pulling out a roll of bills. I suppose you make special terms to commercial travelers?”
“Are you a drummer?”
“Yes. I represent Henry Jennings, of Milford, New York.”
“All right, sir. Our usual rates are two dollars a day. To you they will be a dollar and a quarter.”
“Very well; I will pay you for two days. Is breakfast ready?”
“It is on the table, sir.”
“Then I will go in at once. I will go to my room afterwards.”
In spite of his loss, Carl had a hearty appetite, and did justice to the comfortable breakfast provided. He bought a morning paper, and ran his eye over the advertising columns. He had never before read an Albany paper, and wished to get an idea of the city in its business aspect. It occurred to him that there might be an advertisement of the lost bank book. But no such notice met his eyes.