“You don’t look like a Dutchman,” he said, smiling.

“I suppose you expected a figure like a beer keg,” rejoined Stuyvesant, laughing.  “Some of my forefathers may have answered that description, but I am not built that way.  Are you traveling far?”

“I may go as far as Chicago.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you have friends in Chicago?”

“Not that I am aware of.  I am traveling on business.”

“Indeed; you are rather young for a business man.”

“I am sixteen.”

“Well, that cannot exactly be called venerable.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“By the way, did you succeed in getting a stateroom?”

“Yes, I have a very good one.”

“You’re in luck, on my word.  I was just too late.  The man ahead of me took the last room.”

“You can get a berth, I suppose.”

“But that is so common.  Really, I should not know how to travel without a stateroom.  Have you anyone with you?”

“No.”

“If you will take me in I will pay the entire expense.”

Carl hesitated.  He preferred to be alone, but he was of an obliging disposition, and he knew that there were two berths in the stateroom.

“If it will be an accommodation,” he said, “I will let you occupy the room with me, Mr. Stuyvesant.”

“Will you, indeed!  I shall esteem it a very great favor.  Where is your room?”

“I will show you.”

Carl led the way to No. 17, followed by his new acquaintance.  Mr. Stuyvesant seemed very much pleased, and insisted on paying for the room at once.  Carl accepted half the regular charges, and so the bargain was made.

At ten o’clock the two travelers retired to bed.  Carl was tired and went to sleep at once.  He slept through the night.  When he awoke in the morning the boat was in dock.  He heard voices in the cabin, and the noise of the transfer of baggage and freight to the wharf.

“I have overslept myself,” he said, and jumped up, hurriedly.  He looked into the upper berth, but his roommate was gone.  Something else was gone, too—­his valise, and a wallet which he had carried in the pocket of his trousers.

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.