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 he had a flask of whisky. True, he had been roughly handled. And he had had a ducking in the lake. But those were his sole liabilities. They were insignificant by comparison to his assets.
He grinned in smug self-gratulation. Then his eye fell on Chum, standing ten feet away, looking uncertainly at him.
Chum! To Chum he owed it all! He owed the dog his money, perhaps his very life. Yes—as he rehearsed the struggle to get out of the lake—he owed the collie his life as well as his victory over the holdup men. To Chum!
A great wave of love and gratitude surged up in Ferris. He had a sloppily idiotic yearning to throw his arms about the dog's furry neck and kiss him. But he steadied himself and chirped to the collie to come nearer. Slowly, with queer reluctance, Chum obeyed.
"Listen," mumbled Link incoherently, "I saved you from dying from a bust leg and hunger the night I fust met you, Chummie. An' tonight you squared the bill by saving me from drownin'. But I'm still a whole lot in your debt, friend. I owe you for all the cash in my pocket an'—an' for a pint of the Stuff that Killed Father—an'—an' maybe for a beatin' that might of killed me. Chum, I guess God did a real day's work when He built you. I—I—Let it go at that. Only I ain't forgettin'. Nor yet I ain't li'ble to forget. Come on home. I'm a-gittin' the chatters!"