We were going to this tavern, and
did not wish to go anywhere else. If people did not know where it
was, it would be well for us to go and look for it. We knew the
road that it was on, and the locality in which it was to be found.
Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing along
the road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the other
way,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's.
"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for
the passengers to take supper."
"Well, then, it aint on this side o' the ridge," said the driver;
"we stop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side,
at Pete Lowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it
called the 'Ridge House'?"
I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that
it was not on the other side of the ridge.
"Then," said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But
I've only been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved
away afore I come. But there aint no tavern this side the ridge,
arter ye leave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge."
There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and
who had listened with considerable interest to this conversation.
Presently, one of them turned around to me and said:
"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"
"Yes," I replied, "that's his name."
"Well, I think he's dead," said he.
At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife
shared my trouble.
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