“No; they belong to a man named Davenport who lives over that way about twenty miles.”
“Davenport!” exclaimed Henderson, who was taken all aback.
“Them’s the words I spoke, pilgrim,” said the horseman, looking at Henderson in surprise. “Maybe you know the man?”
“Is he Robert Davenport?” enquired Henderson, scarcely believing that he had heard aright.
“I believe that is what they call him sometimes.”
“And he’s got a little boy named Bob?”
“Well, he aint so very little now. He was little when he came here, but he’s growed to be right smart. Maybe you know the man?”
“Did he come here from St. Louis?”
“Look a-here, pilgrim; suppose you let me ask some questions. How do you happen to know so much about the man? He’s my employer, and a mighty good man he is.”
“I beg your pardon! but when I heard you speak his name I concluded that I knew him. I knew a man of that name once who was almost dead of consumption. But of course it can’t be the same one.”