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 places at the stage-office, I inquired for David Dutton, the farmer 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.