“And so you’ve lost your way?” said the stranger after a long pause, during which the thick fog had had the kindness to convert itself into a close penetrating rain. “That’s queer too, seein’ that the ferry ain’t fifteen paces from the road, which runs right along the side of the river. A very queer mistake to be goin’ up the stream, instead of followin’ yer nose and the run of the water.”
“What do you mean?” cried Richards and I in a breath.
“That you’re goin’ up the Tennessee instead of down it, and are on the road to Bainbridge. That’s all!” replied the supposed Yankee.
“On the road to Bainbridge!” repeated we, in voices in which astonishment and vexation were tolerably evident.
“You hadn’t a mind to go to Bainbridge, then?”
“How far is the infernal place from here?” asked I.
“How far, how far?” repeated the man with the metal buttons. “It’s not to say very far, nor yet so very near, as I may guess. Perhaps you know Squire Dimple?”
“I wish you and Squire Dimple were at the devil!” muttered I. But Richards, who took things more quietly, replied—
“No, we have not the honour of his acquaintance.”
“Humph! And whereaway may you be goin’?” enquired our tormentor, who was apparently waterproof.