Chapter XXIX. The Lost Bank Book

Carl was not long in concluding that he had been robbed by his roommate. It was hard to believe that a Stuyvesant--a representative of one of the old Dutch families of New Amsterdam--should have stooped to such a discreditable act. 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. 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