Out in the highroad, a homing instinct guided his leaden feet in
the direction of Hampton. And he plodded dazedly the
interminable four miles that separated him from his desolate
farm.
As he turned in at his own gate, he was aware of a poignant dread
that pierced his numbness. And he knew it for a dread of entering
the house and of finding no one to welcome him. Setting his teeth
he went forward, unlocked the door and stamped into the silent
kitchen.
Upon the table he dumped the paper-swathed cup he had been
carrying unnoticed under his arm. Beside it he threw the little
purse full of gold pieces and the wad of prize ribbons. Stepping
back, his foot struck something. He looked down and saw it was a
gay-colored rubber ball he had bought, months ago, for Chum--the
dog's favorite plaything.
His face twisting, Link snatched up the ball and went out onto
the steps to throw it far out of sight; that it might no more
remind him of the pet who had so often coaxed him to toss it for
retrieval.
Ferris hurled the ball far out into the garden.
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