He had been stroking the oddly unresponsive dog's head as he
spoke. Now, for the first time, Link realized that the night was
cool, that his drenched clothes were like ice on him, and that
the cold and the shock reaction were giving him a sharp
congestive chill. Walking fast to restore circulation to his
numbed body he made off for his distant farmhouse, Chum pattering
along at his heels.

The rapid walk set him into a glow. But by the time he had
reached home and had stripped off his wet clothes and swathed
himself in a rough blanket, his racked nerves reasserted
themselves. He craved a drink--a number of drinks--to restore his
wonted poise. Lighting the kitchen lamp, he set the whisky bottle
on the table and put a thick tumbler alongside it. Chum was lying
at his master's feet. In front of Ferris was a pint of good
cheer. The lamplight made the kitchen bright and cozy. Link felt
a sense of utter well-being pervade him.

This was home--this was the real thing. Three successive and
man-size drinks of whisky presently made it seem more and more
the real thing. They made all things seem possible, and most
things highly desirable. Link wanted to sing. And after two
additional drinks he gratified this taste by lifting his voice in
a hiccup-punctuated ditty addressed to one Jenny, whom the singer
exhorted to wait till the clouds rolled by.

He was following this appeal by a rural lyric which recited in
somewhat wearisome tonal monotony the adventures of a Little
Black Bull that came Over the Mountain, when he observed that