patients' temperatures to rocketing. Take the cur out and shoot
him!"

"Excuse me, sir," spoke up Mahan, as Vivier stared aghast at the
man who commanded Bruce's destruction, "but he's no cur. He's a
courier-collie, officially in the service of the United States
Government. And he's the best courier-dog in France to-day. This
is--"

"I don't care what he is!" raged the surgeon. "He--"

"This is Bruce," continued Mahan, "the dog that saved the 'Here-
We-Comes' at Rache, and that steered a detail of us to safety one
night in the fog, in the Chateau-Thierry sector. If you order any
man of the 'Here-We-Comes' to shoot Bruce, you're liable to have
a mutiny on your hands--officer or no officer. But if you wish,
sir, I can transmit your order to the K.O. If he endorses it--"

But the surgeon sought, at that moment, to save the remnants of
his dignity and of a bad situation by stalking loftily back into
the hospital, and leaving Mahan in the middle of his speech.

"Or, sir," the Sergeant grinningly called after him, "you might
write to the General Commanding, and tell him you want Bruce
shot. The Big Dog always sleeps in the general's own room, when
he's off-duty, at Division Headquarters. Maybe the general will
O.K. his death-sentence, if you ask him to. He--"

Somewhat quickening his stately stride, the surgeon passed out of
earshot. At the officers' mess of the "Here-We-Comes," he had