“What!” cried Phœbe, “the negroes. Where’d they get ten thou——”
She stopped, aghast at the thought that had crossed her mind. She knew all about the Wells’ scheme of keeping back half of the wages into a savings fund; and she knew that it was something more than a charity. A contract guaranteeing those savings had been drawn up for each employee on the Wells estate. Such money belonged to the negroes, and Mrs. Wells was nothing more than a legal trustee of the funds. If that had been touched, Phœbe with her natural business experience knew that something more than the mild procedure of bankruptcy might be in store for Jerry’s mother.
“Did she say she had used that money, too?” Phœbe asked breathlessly.
“I fear so,” he told her kindly. “But don’t worry, my dear girl. As soon as I have talked with Jerry—I want to see those documents—I’ll get in touch with New York and fix the whole business up.”
“You’re not foolin’ me, are you?” she asked plaintively.
“No.”
“I thought you had no money.”
“I hadn’t until a few hours ago.”
“How much have you got?”
“I don’t know, Phœbe,” he laughed excitedly like a boy. “Heaps of it. Barrels of it. Millions, I think.”