"We were stuck in the front line of the Rache salient," explained
Mahan, eager to recount his dog-friend's prowess. "On both sides
our supports got word to fall back. We couldn't get the word,
because our telephone connection was knocked galley-west. There
we were, waiting for a Hun attack to wipe us out. We couldn't
fall back, for they were peppering the hillslope behind us. We
were at the bottom. They'd have cut us to ribbons if we'd shown
our carcasses in the open. Bruce was here, with a message he'd
brought. The K.O. sent him back to headquarters for the reserves.
The boche heavies and snipers and machine-guns all cut loose to
stop him as he scooted up the hill. And a measly giant of a
German police dog tried to kill him, too. Bruce got through the
lot of them; and he reached headquarters with the SOS call that
saved us. The poor chap was cut and gouged and torn by bullets
and shell-scraps, and he was nearly dead from shell-shock, too.
But the surgeon general worked over him, himself, and pulled him
back to life. He--"

"He is a loved pet of a man and a woman in your America, I have
heard one say," chimed in Vivier. "And his home, there, was in
the quiet country. He was lent to the cause, as a patriotic
offering, ce brave! And of a certainty, he has earned his
welcome."

When Bruce, an hour later, trotted into the trenches, on the way
to the "Here-We-Come" colonel's quarters, he was received like a
visiting potentate. Dozens of men hailed him eagerly by name as
he made his way to his destination with the message affixed to
his collar.