against his shoulder. But before the other could gain his coveted
throat-grip, Bruce was up again. Like a furry whirlwind he was at
the police-dog, fighting more like a wolf than a civilized collie
--tearing into his opponent with a maniac rage, snapping,
slashing; his glittering white fangs driving at a dozen
vulnerable points in a single second.

It was as though Bruce knew he had no time to waste from his
life-and-death mission. He could not elude this enemy, so he must
finish him as quickly as possible.

"Give me your rifle!" sputtered Mahan to the soldier nearest him.
"I'll take one potshot at that Prussian cur, before the machine-
guns get the two of 'em. Even if I hit Bruce by mistake, he'd
rather die by a Christian Yankee-made bullet than--"

Just then the scythelike machine-gun fire reached the hillcrest
combatants. And in the same instant a shell smote the ground,
apparently between them. Up went a geyser of smoke and dirt and
rocks. When the cloud settled, there was a deep gully in the
ground where a moment earlier Bruce and the police-dog had waged
their death-battle.

"That settles it!" muttered the colonel.

And he went to make ready for such puny defense as his men might
hope to put up against the German rush.

While these futile preparations were still under way, terrific
artillery fire burst from the Allied batteries behind the hill,