"Yes," replied Betts, "'Lander knew about it. He used to say that a part of it was his because he had worked for it as much as I had. But I told him," and the old man's voice cheeped in a sort of laugh, "that he was mine."
"Where was your son Philander when the money disappeared?" said Randolph.
"Over the mountains," said Betts; "he had been gone a month." Then he paused and looked at Randolph. "It was not 'Lander. On that day he was in the school that Mr. Jefferson set up. I had a letter from the master asking for money. . . . I have the letter," and he got up to get it.
But Randolph waved his hand and sat back in his chair with the aspect of a brooding oracle.
It was then that my uncle spoke.
"Betts," he said, "how do you think the money went?"
The old man's voice got again into that big crude whisper.
"I don't know, Abner."
But my uncle pressed him.
"What do you think?"
Betts drew a little nearer to the table.
"Abner," he said, "there are a good many things going on around a man that he don't understand. We turn out a horse to pasture, and he comes in with hand-holts in his mane. . . . You have seen it?"
"Yes," replied my uncle.
198
