Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far from the point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain range, and about sixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friend of ours, who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country was lovely, and the house was kept by a farmer, who was a good soul, and tried to make his guests happy. These were generally passing farmers and wagoners, or stage-passengers, stopping for a meal, but occasionally a person from the cities, like our friend, came to spend a few weeks in the mountains. So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just what we wanted. When I took our place at the stage-office, I inquired for David Button, the farm tavern-keeper before mentioned, but the agent did not know of him. "However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and he'll set you down at the house." So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that we were to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the trip, although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a delightful one. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time, through the woods, but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn in the road often gave us lovely views of the foot-hills and the valleys behind us. But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found out after we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settle this matter before starting, but I am not at all sure that it would have been so. We were going to this tavern, and did not wish to go anywhere else. If people did not know where it was, it would be well for us to go and look for it. We knew the road that it was on, and the locality in which it was to be found. Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing along the road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the other way,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's. "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 nowhere's 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.