shielding the Here-We-Come trenches with a curtain of fire whose
lower folds draped themselves right unlovingly around the German
lines. Under cover of this barrage, down the hill swarmed the
Allied reserves!

"How did you get word?" demanded the astonished colonel of the
Here-We-Comes, later in the day.

"From your note, of course," replied the general he had
questioned. "The collie--old Bruce."

"Bruce?" babbled the colonel foolishly.

"Of course," answered the general. "Who else? But I'm afraid it's
the last message he'll ever deliver. He came rolling and
staggering up to headquarters--one mass of blood, and three
inches thick with caked dirt. His right side was torn open from a
shell-wound, and he had two machine-gun bullets in his shoulder.
He's deaf as a post, too, from shell-shock. He tumbled over in a
heap on the steps of headquarters. But he GOT there. That's
Bruce, all over. That's the best type of collie, all over. Some
of us were for putting him out of his misery with a shot through
the head. We'd have done it, too, if it had been any other dog.
But the surgeon-general waded in and took a hand in the game--
carried Bruce to his own quarters. We left him working over the
dog himself. And he swears Bruce will pull through!"



CHAPTER IV. When Eyes Were No Use