The last thing I did before leaving Mooresville the night of the
accident was to pull out my modest roll and give Doc White a $5
bill, and he gave me back two $1 bills, that I folded with the
others and then put in my little watch, or ticket pocket, in the
upper front part of my britches. Mr. George Cunningham, manager
of the Claypool Hotel, saw that, and so did Doc White of
Mooresville, I think. Then Mr. Cunningham and his wife and I got
in his car, Mr. Cunningham in the front seat driving, and Mrs.
Cunningham and I in back, and went direct to your place. Mr.
Cunningham couldn't have robbed me, and wouldn't have if he could
(there's some wording for you); it would be heresy to think Mrs.
C. would (if you know her); anybody would have to be a hell of a
sight worse off than I was to go broadcasting $1 bills enroute to
a place like yours, knowing full well if he had any sense at all
that if he stayed there a week he'd have to mortgage the back 40
to get paid out. So that last theory is plumb out. And all that
remains is the aforesaid "low fellow."
The weak spot in my whole story is expecting the other fellow to
believe me, and me alone as to just how much I had in money. I
don't like to be in that position.
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