Mr.Robinson instantly arrived at the determination that the stranger was "stuck up," but was in no degree cast down thereby.
"I heard Chet Timson tellin' that the' was a feller comin' f'm N'York to work in Dave Harum's bank.

Guess you're him, ain't ye ?" No answer this time: theory confirmed.
"My name's Robinson," imparted that individual.

"I run the prince'ple liv'ry to Homeville." "Ah!" responded the passenger.
"What d'you say your name was ?" asked Mr.Robinson, after he had steered his team around one of the monuments to public spirit.
"It's Lenox," said John, thinking he might concede something to such deserving perseverance, "but I don't remember mentioning it." "Now I think on't, I guess you didn't," admitted Mr.Robinson.

"Don't think I ever knowed anybody of the name," he remarked.

"Used to know some folks name o' Lynch, but they couldn't 'a' ben no relations o' your'n, I guess." This conjecture elicited no reply.
"Git up, goll darn ye!" he exclaimed, as one of the horses stumbled, and he gave it a jerk and a cut of the whip.