in Chum's soul was
stronger. He seemed to know that the maudlin Unknown had vanished, and
that his dear master was back again--his dear master who was in
grievous trouble and who must be comforted.

Wherefore, the sickening liquor fumes no longer held him aloof from
Link. Just as the icy lake had not deterred him from springing into the
water after his drowning god, although, like most collies, Chum hated
to swim.

Link, through his own nervous collapse, recognized the instant change
in Chum's demeanor, and read it aright. It strengthened the old bond
between himself and the dog. It somehow gave him a less scornful
opinion of himself.

Presently he got to his feet, and with the collie at his side went back
to the table, where stood the threeparts-empty flask. His face working,
Link opened the window and poured what was left of the whisky out on
the ground. There was nothing dramatic about his action. Rather it was
tinged by very visible regret. Turning back to Chum, he said sheepishly:

"There it goes. An' I ain't sayin' I'm tickled at wastin' such good
stuff. But--somehow I guess we've come to a showdown, Chum; you an' me.
If I stick to booze, I'm li'ble to see you looking at me that queer way
an' sidlin' away from me all the time; till maybe at last you'd get
plumb sick of me for keeps, an' light out. An'--I'd rather have YOU
than the booze, since I can't have both of you. Bein' only a dawg and
never havin' tasted good red liquor, you can't know what a big bouquet
I'm a-throwin' at you when I say that, neither. I--Oh, let's call it a
day and go to sleep."

Next morning, in the course of nature, Link Ferris worked with a
splitting headache. He carried it and a bad taste in his mouth, for the
best part of the day.

But it was the last drink headache which marred his labor, all that
long and happy summer. His work showed the results of the change. So
did the meager hill farm. So did Link's system and his pocketbook.

As he was a real, live human and not a temperance tract hero, there
were times when he girded bitterly at his self-enforced abstinence.
Where were times, too--when he had a touch of malaria and again when
the cutworms slaughtered two rows of his early tomatoes--when he
yearned unspeakably for the solace of an evening at the Hampton tavern.

He had never been a natural drinker. Like many a better man he had
drunk less for what he sought to get than for what he sought to forget.
And with the depar