"You see, Captain, we've made such a pet--such a baby--of Bruce!
All his life he has lived here--here where he had the woods to
wander in and the lake to swim in, and this house for his home.
He will be so unhappy and--Well, don't let's talk about that!
When I think of the people who give their sons and everything
they have, to the country, I feel ashamed of not being more
willing to let a mere dog go. But then Bruce is not just a 'mere
dog.' He is--he is BRUCE. All I ask is that if he is injured and
not killed, you'll arrange to have him sent back here to us.
We'll pay for it, of course. And will you write to whomever you
happen to know, at that dog-training school in England, and ask
that Bruce be treated nicely while he is training there? He's
never been whipped. He's never needed it, you see."


The Mistress might have spared herself much worry as to Bruce's
treatment in the training school to which he was consigned. It
was not a place of cruelty, but of development. And when, out of
the thousands of dogs sent there, the corps of trainers found one
with promise of strong ability, such a pupil was handled with all
the care and gentleness and skill that a temperamental prima
donna might expect.

Such a dog was the big American collie, debarked from a goods car
at the training camp railway station, six weeks after the
Mistress and the Master had consented to his enlistment. And the
handlers treated him accordingly.

The Master himself had taken Bruce to the transport, in Brooklyn,
and had led him aboard the overfull ship. The new sights and