and out while he lay there. But all of them
had shut the door too soon for him to slip inside.

At last Ferris had appeared between his two new friends. Chum had been
friskily happy to see his long-absent god again. He had sprung forward
to greet Link. Then, his odd collie sense had told him that for some
reason this staggering and hiccuping creature was not the master whom
he knew and loved. This man was strangely different from the Link
Ferris whom Chum knew.

Puzzled, the dog had halted and had stood irresolute. As he stood
there, Ferris had stumbled heavily over him, hurting the collie's ribs
and his tender flesh; and had meandered on without so much as a word or
a look for his pet.

Chum, still irresolute and bewildered, had followed at a distance the
swaying progress of the trio, until Link's yell and the attack had
brought him in furious haste to Ferris's rescue.

Link presently recovered enough of his breath to enable him to move.
The ducking in icy water had cleared his bemused brain. Approximately
sober, he got to his feet and stood swaying and dazed. As he rose, his
groping hand closed over something cold and hard that had fallen to the
ground beside him. And he recognized it. So he picked it up and stuck
it into his pocket.

It was a pint flask of whisky--one he had received as a farewell gift
from his two friends as the three had left the tavern. It had been an
easy gift for the men to make. For they were confidently certain of
recovering it a few minutes later when they should go through their
victim's clothes. Dawning intelligence told Link he had not come
through the adventure very badly, after all--thanks to Chum. Ferris
well understood now why the thieves had picked acquaintance with him at
sight of his money, and why they had gotten him drunk.

The memory of what he had escaped gave him a new qualm of nausea. The
loss of his cash would have meant suspended credit at the store and the
leanest three months he had ever known.

But soon the joy in his triumph wiped out this thought.

The native North Jersey mountaineer has a peculiar vein of cunning
which makes him morbidly eager to get the best of anyone at all--even
if the victory brings him nothing worth while.

Link Ferris had had an evening of limitless liquor. He still had a pint
of whisky to take home. And it had cost him not a cent, except for his
first two rounds of drinks.

He had had his spree. He still had all his check money. And