Link was ashamed of his own delight in finding he need not give
up his pet--even for seventy-five dollars. He tried to recall his
father's invectives against dogs, and to remind himself that
another mouth to feed on the farm must mean still sharper poverty
and skimping. But logic could not strangle joy, and life took on
a new zest for the lonely man.
By the time Chum could limp around on the fasthealing foreleg, he
and Link had established a friendship that was a boon to both and
a stark astonishment to Ferris.
Link had always loved animals. He had an inborn "way" with them.
Yet his own intelligence had long since taught him that his "farm
critters" responded but dully to his attempts at a more perfect
understanding.
He knew, for example, that the horse he had bred and reared and
had taught to come at his call, would doubtless suffer the first
passing stranger to mount him and ride him away, despite any call
from his lifelong master. He knew that his presence, to the
cattle and sheep, meant only food or a shift of quarters; and
that an outsider could drive or tend them as readily as could he
on whose farm they had been born.
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