such a thing until now. Yet he did not jump for the gift. He did
not try to snatch it from Vivier. Instead, he waited until the
old Frenchman held it closer toward him, with the invitation:

"Take it, mon vieux! It is for you."

Then and then only did Bruce reach daintily forward and grip the
grimy bit of sugar between his mighty jaws. Vivier stroked the
collie's head while Bruce wagged his tail and munched the sugar
and blinked gratefully up at the donor. Mahan looked on,
enviously. "A dog's got forty-two teeth, instead of the thirty-
two that us humans have to chew on," observed the Sergeant. "A
vet' told me that once. And sugar is bad for all forty-two of
'em. Maybe you didn't know that, Monsoo Vivier? Likely, at this
rate, we'll have to chip in before long and buy poor Brucie a
double set of false teeth. Just because you've put his real ones
out of business with lumps of sugar!"

Vivier looked genuinely concerned at this grim forecast. Bruce
wandered across to the place where the donor of the soup-bone
brandished his offering. Other men, too, were crowding around
with gifts.

Between petting and feeding, the collie spent a busy hour among
his comrades-at-arms. He was to stay with the "Here-We-Comes"
until the following day, and then carry back to headquarters a
reconnaissance report.

At four o'clock that afternoon the sky was softly blue and the
air was unwontedly clear. By five o'clock a gentle India-summer