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workings of the engine being shut down, he began without further reflection to knock at random on a little door before which he had halted. “It’s open,” cried a voice from within and, sighing with genuine relief, Karl stepped into the cabin. “Why do you have to bang on the door like a madman?” a huge man asked, almost without looking at Karl. Through a skylight somewhere a dull light, already expended on the upper decks, fell into the miserable cabin, where a bed, a closet, a chair, and the man were packed side by side, as if in storage. “I’ve lost my way,” said Karl, “on the voyage over I never really noticed what a terribly big ship this is.” “Yes, you’re right,” the man said with a certain pride as he tinkered with the lock on a small suitcase, which he opened and closed continually with both hands, listening for the bolt to snap into place. “But do come in,” the man continued, “you’re hardly going to stand there like that.” “Am I not disturbing you?” Karl asked. “How could you disturb me?” “Are you a German?” Karl sought to assure himself, for he had heard a great deal about the dangers facing newcomers in America, especially from Irishmen. “Yes, yes,” said the man. Karl continued to hesitate. Suddenly the man seized the door handle and pulled Karl into the cabin along with the door, which he promptly shut. “I simply can’t stand having people stare in at me from the corridor,” the man said, toying with his trunk again. “Everyone who walks by looks in; who could possibly stand that?” “But the corridor is completely empty,” said Karl, who was pressed uncomfortably against the bedpost. “It is now,” said the man. When else but now? thought Karl. It’s not easy talking to this man. “Lie down on the bed, that’ll give you a bit more room,” said the man. Karl crawled in as best he could, laughing loudly at his initially futile attempt to swing himself onto the bed. No sooner was he lying down than he cried: “Oh, my goodness, I forgot all about my trunk.” “Well, where is it?” “Up on deck, an acquaintance of mine is keeping an eye on it. Let me see, his name is . . . ?” From the secret pocket his mother had attached to the lining of his coat, Karl drew a visiting card: “Butterbaum, Franz Butterbaum.” “Do you really need the trunk?” “Of course I do.” “Then why did you give it to a stranger?” “I had forgotten my umbrella below deck, so I ran to get it, but didn’t want to drag along my trunk. And then I got lost.” “You’re alone? Unaccompanied?” “Yes, I’m alone.” Perhaps I should stick with this man—thought Karl—for where else could I find a better friend just now? “And you’ve lost your trunk too. Not to mention your umbrella,” and the man sat down on the chair as though he had begun to take an interest in Karl’s affair. “But I don’t believe that my trunk is lost.” “Blessed are those who believe,” said the man, giving his thick short dark hair a vigorous scratching. “People’s conduct on board ship varies from one port to the next; in Hamburg your friend Butterbaum might have looked after your trunk, but here both will probably disappear without a trace.” “Well, in that case I’ll have to check up on deck at once,” said Karl, looking around for a way out. “Stay,” the man said and, putting his hand on Karl’s chest, pushed him roughly back onto the bed. “But why?” asked Karl, who had become annoyed. “It makes no sense,” said the man. “I’ll be leaving in a moment, and we can go together. Either the trunk has been stolen, in which case it’s hopeless and you can moan about it till the end of your days, or