"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for the passengers to take supper."
"Well, then, it ain't 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 ain't 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.