"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, 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
"Yes, it's an easy enough trade to pick up," lectured Top-Sergeant Mahan, formerly of the regular army. "You've just got to remember a few things. But you've got to keep on remembering those few, all the time. If you forget one of 'em, it's the last bit of forgetting you're ever likely to do."