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,