dugout-table that reminded the colonel of Bruce's existence and
of his presence in the front trench. It was a matter of thirty
seconds for the colonel to scrawl an urgent appeal and a brief
statement of conditions. Almost as soon as the note was ready, an
orderly appeared at the dugout entrance, convoying the newly
awakened Bruce.

The all-important message was fastened in place. The colonel
himself went to the edge of the traverse, and with his own arms
lifted the eighty-pound collie to the top.

There was tenderness as well as strength in the lifting arms. As
he set Bruce down on the brink, the colonel said, as if speaking
to a fellow-human:

"I hate to do it, old chap. I HATE to! There isn't one chance in
three of your getting all the way up the hill alive. But there
wouldn't be one chance in a hundred, for a MAN. The boches will
be on the lookout for just this move. And their best
sharpshooters will be waiting for you--even if you dodge the
shrapnel and the rest of the artillery. I'm sorry! And--good-by."

Then, tersely, he rasped out the command--

"Bruce! Headquarters! Headquarters! QUICK!"

At a bound, the dog was gone.

Breasting the rise of the hill, Bruce set off at a sweeping run,
his tawny-and-white mane flying in the wind.