"What sort of a pocket-book was it?" asked Mr. Thomas.
"It was of crocodile skin, or what is sold for that, very likely it
is an imitation, and about so large indicating the size."
"What had it in it?"
"Various things. Some specimens of mica; some bank checks, some
money."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, a photograph. And, oh, something that I presume is not in
another pocket-book in North Carolina, - in an envelope, a lock of the
hair of George Washington, the Father of his Country." Sensation
mixed with incredulity. Washington's hair did seem such an odd part
of an outfit for a journey of this kind.
"How much money was in it?"
"That I cannot say, exactly. I happen to remember four twenty-dollar
United States notes, and a roll of small bills, perhaps something
over a hundred dollars."
"Is that the pocket-book?" asked David Thomas, slowly pulling the
loved and lost out of his trousers pocket.
"It is."
"You'd be willing to take your oath on it?"
"I should be delighted to."
"Well, I guess there ain't so much money in it. You can count it
[handing it over]; there hain't been nothing taken out.
