It was not that he called our little tavern an "inn." It was the name he gave me which caused me to start.
"Orme," said I, "Mr.Gordon Orme?
That was the name of the speaker the other evening here at the church of the Methodists." He nodded, smiling.

"Don't let that trouble you," said he.
None the less it did trouble me; for the truth was that word had gone about to the effect that a new minister from some place not stated had spoken from the pulpit on that evening upon no less a topic than the ever present one of Southern slavery.

Now, I could not clear it to my mind how a minister of the gospel might take so keen and swift an interest in a stranger in the street, and that stranger's horse.

I expressed to him something of my surprise.
"It's of no importance," said he again.

"What seems to me of most importance just at present is that here's a son of old Klingwalla, and that I want to ride him." "Just for the sake of saying you have done so ?" I inquired.
His face changed swiftly as he answered: "We owned Klingwalla ourselves back home.