'He seems to know you,' I remarked.
'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'
'Who is Mr. Westrop?' I inquired, holding Patch more tightly.
For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog, and then fixed his small eyes on my face.
'The question is,' he said slowly, 'where did you get him?'
'You see, I found him,' I replied.
'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver. 'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'
The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to recognise the name of 'Sam.'
'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'
'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus, and their wasted drive to that town.