He must, they felt
sure, have made the forgery with a camel's hair brush of
unrivalled fineness.
"A great artist!" said the president.
"The most skilful forger in the world!" opined another.
"We must run down all the celebrated criminals!" announced a
third.
"Great artist-nothing!" remarked the boss, rubbing his thumb
over the certification which blurred at the touch. "He's no
painter! Why, that's a rubber stamp!"
What a shock for those dignified gentlemen! To think that
their cashier had been deceived by a mere, plebeian, common
or garden thing of rubber!
"Good-day, gents!" said the boss, putting the check in his
wallet. "I've got to get busy with the rubber stamp makers!"
He returned to his office and detailed a dozen men to work on
the East Side and a dozen on the West Side, with orders to
search out every man in New York who manufactured rubber
stamps. Before the end of the afternoon the maker was found
on the Bowery, near Houston Street. This was his story: A
couple of weeks before, a young man had come in and ordered a
certification stamp, drawing at the time a rough design of
what he wanted.
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