as barren as a rainy sea.

If he dreamed of other and wider things, the workaday grind
speedily set such dreams to rout. When the gnawing of lonely
unrest was too acute for bovine endurance--and when he could
spare the time or the money--he was wont to go to the mile-off
hamlet of Hampton and there get as nearly drunk as his funds
would permit.

It was his only surcease. And as a rule, it was a poor one. For
seldom did he have enough ready money to buy wholesale
forgetfulness. More often he was able to purchase only enough
hard cider or fuseloil whisky to make him dull and vaguely
miserable.

It was on his way home one Saturday night from such a rudimentary
debauch at Hampton that his Adventure had its small beginning.

For a half mile or so of Link's homeward pilgrimage--before he
turned off into the grass-grown, rutted hill trail which led to
his farm--his way led along a spur of the state road which linked
New York City with the Ramapo hill country.

And here, as Link swung glumly along through the springtide dusk,
his ears were assailed by a sound that was something between a
sigh and a sob--a sound as of one who tries valiantly to stifle a
whimper of sharp pain.

Ferris halted, uncertain, at the road edge; and peered about him.
Again he heard the sound. And this time he located it in the long