up-flung head.

A hundred voices from the Here-We-Come trenches hailed the
advancing dog.

"Why, it's Bruce!" cried Mahan in glad welcome. "I might 'a'
known he or another of the collies would be along. I might 'a'
known it, when the telephones went out of commission. He--"

"Regardez-donc!" interrupted the admiring Vivier. "He acts like
bullets was made of flies! Mooch he care for boche lead-pills, ce
brave vieux!"

"Yes," growled Dale worriedly; "and one of these days a bullet
will find its way into that splendid carcass of his. He's been
shot at, a thousand times, to my own knowledge. And all I ask is
a chance, with a rifle-butt, at the skull of the Hun who downs
him!"

"Downs Bruce?" queried Vivier in fine scorn. "The boche he is no
borned who can do it. Bruce has what you call it, in Ainglish,
the 'charm life.' He go safe, where other caniche be pepper-
potted full of holes. I've watch heem. I know."

Unscathed by the several shots that whined past him, Bruce came
to a halt at the edge of a traverse. There he stood, wagging his
plume of a tail in grave friendliness, while a score of khaki-
clad arms reached up to lift him bodily into the trench.

A sergeant unfastened the message from the dog's collar and