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.
Then the other farmer spoke up.
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