"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 nowheres 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.
"I don't believe he's dead, Hiram," said he to his companion. "I heered of him this spring. He's got a sheep farm on the other side o' the mountain, and he's a-livin' there. That's what I heered, at any rate. But he don't live on this road any more," he continued, turning to us. "He used to keep tavern on this road, and the stages did used to stop fur supper—or else dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which. But he don't keep tavern on this road no more."
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