wherein were ensconced ten ten-dollar gold pieces.

It was all a dream--a wonder dream from which presently he must awaken.
Link was certain of that. But while the golden dream lasted, he knew
the nameless joys of paradise.

Chum close at his side, he made his way through the congratulating
crowd toward the outer gate of the country club grounds. He had almost
reached the wicket when someone touched him, with unnecessary firmness,
on the shoulder.

Not relishing the familiarity, Link turned a scowling visage on the
interrupter of his triumphal homeward progress. At his elbow stood a
stockily-built man, dressed with severe plainness.

"You're Lincoln Ferris?" queried the stranger, more as if stating
aggressively a fact than making an inquiry.

"Yep," said Link, cross at this annoying break-in upon his trance of
happiness. "What d'j' want?" he added.

"Please step back to the clubhouse a minute with me," returned the
stranger, civilly enough, but with the same bossy firmness in his tone
that had jarred Ferris in his touch. "One or two people want to speak
to you. Bring along your dog."

Link glowered. He fancied he knew what was in store. Some of the ultra
select had gathered in the holy interior of the clubhouse and wanted a
private view of Chum, unsullied by the noisy presence of the crowd
outside. They would talk patronizingly to Link, and perhaps even try to
coax him into selling Chum. The thought decided Ferris.

"I'm goin' home!" he said roughly.

"You're coming with me," contradicted the man in that same quiet voice,
but slipping his muscular arm into Link's.

With his other hand he shifted the lapel of his coat, displaying a
police badge on its reverse. Still avoiding any outward appearance of
force, he turned about, with his arm locked in Ferris's and started
toward the clubhouse.

"Here!" expostulated poor Link, with all a true mountaineer's horror of
the police. "What's all this? I ain't broke no law! I--"

An ugly growl from Chum punctuated his scared plea. Noting the terror
in his master's tone and the grip of the stranger on Link's arm, Chum
had spun round to face the two.

The collie's eyes were fixed grimly upon the plainclothes man's
temptingly thick throat. One corner of Chum's upper lip was curled
back, displaying a businesslike if snowy fang. His head was lowered.
Deep in his furry throat a succession of legato growls were born.

The plain-clothes man knew much about dogs. He knew, fo