Carrington at once relapsed into silence and ventured no further opinion on any topic. Betty was left wondering whether she had been rude, and when they met again asked if the stage would reach Washington at the advertised hour. She had been consulting the copy of Badger's and Porter's Register which Ferris had thrust into her satchel the morning she left the Barony, and which, among a multiplicity of detail as to hotels and taverns, gave the runnings of all the regular stage lines, packets, canal-boats and steamers, by which one could travel over the length and breadth of the land. “You stop in Washington?” said Carrington.
Betty shook her head. “No, I am going on to Wheeling.”
“You're fortunate in being so nearly home,” he observed. “I am going on to Memphis.” He felt it was time she knew this, or else she might think his movements were dictated by her own.
Betty exclaimed: “Why, I am going to Memphis, too!”
“Are you? By canal to Cumberland, and then by stage over the National Road to Wheeling?”
Betty nodded. “It makes one wish they'd finish their railroads, doesn't it? Do you suppose they'll ever get as far west as Memphis?” she said.
“They say it's going to be bad for the river trade when they're built on something besides paper,” answered Carrington. “And I happen to be a flatboat-man, Miss Malroy.”
Betty gave him a glance of surprise.
“Why, how did you learn my name?” she asked.
“Oh, I heard your friends speak it,” he answered glibly. But Betty's smooth brow was puckered thoughtfully. She wondered if he had—and if he hadn't. It was very odd certainly that he should know it.