"It is the helper of US, too," suggested old Vivier. "More than
one time, it has kept me safe when I was on patrol. And did it
not help to save us at Rache, when--"

"The fog may have helped us, one per cent, at Rache," admitted
Mahan. "But Bruce did ninety-nine per cent of the saving."

"A Scotch general?" asked the recruit, as Vivier nodded cordial
affirmation of Mahan's words, and as others of the old-timers
muttered approval.

"No," contradicted Mahan. "A Scotch collie. If you were dry
behind the ears, in this life, you wouldn't have to ask who Bruce
is."

"I don't understand," faltered the rookie, suspicious of a
possible joke.

"You will soon," Mahan told him. "Bruce will be here to-day. I
heard the K.O. saying the big dog is going to be sent down with
some dispatches or something, from headquarters. It's his first
trip since he was cut up so."

"I am saving him--this!" proclaimed Vivier, disgorging from the
flotsam of his pocket a lump of once-white sugar. "My wife, she
smuggle three of these to me in her last paquet. One I eat in my
cafe noir; one I present to mon cher vieux, ce bon Mahan; one I
keep for the grand dog what save us all that day."

"What's the idea?" queried the mystified rookie. "I don't--"