"Of course not," said his companion, "if he's a-livin' over the mountain. But I b'lieve he's dead."
I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Dutton had left this part of the country.
"I don't know fur certain," he said, "but I know he was keeping tavern here two year ago this fall, fur I came along here myself, and stopped there to git supper—or dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which."
It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house. There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old place now. My wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to come so far without making more particular inquiries. But we had had an idea that a man who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always.
"What are ye goin' to do?" asked the driver, very much interested, for it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost their destination, "Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders sometimes."
But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country tavern, where stage-passengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find.
"Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?" said the driver to the man who had once taken either dinner or supper there.
"Oh, yes! I'd know the house well enough if I saw it. It's the fust house this side o' Lowry's."
"With a big pole in front of it?" asked the driver.
"Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it."
"An' a long porch?"
"Yes."
"Oh! well!" said the driver, settling himself in
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