The cherub's name was Karl Schwartz, an orphan, missing from
Schlachtstadt since the age of twelve. Relations not living, or in
emigration. Identity established by prisoner's admission and record.
"Now, Karl," said the consul cheerfully, as the door of his private
office closed upon them, "what is your little game? Have you EVER had
any papers? And if you were clever enough to study the map of New York
State, why weren't you clever enough to see that it wouldn't stand you
in place of your papers?"
"Dot's joost it," said Karl in English; "but you see dot if I haf
declairet mine intention of begomming a citizen, it's all the same,
don't it?"
"By no means, for you seem to have no evidence of the DECLARATION; no
papers at all."
"Zo!" said Karl. Nevertheless, he pushed his small, rosy,
pickled-pig's-feet of fingers through his fleecy curls and beamed
pleasantly at the consul. "Dot's vot's der matter," he said, as if
taking a kindly interest in some private trouble of the consul's. "Dot's
vere you vos, eh?"
The consul looked steadily at him for a moment. Such stupidity was by
no means phenomenal, nor at all inconsistent with his appearance.
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