w only a question
of an hour or less before a charge with a double-enveloping movement
would surround and bag the Here-We-Comes, catching the whole regiment
in an inescapable trap.

To fall back, now, up that long bare hillside, under full fire of the
augmented German artillery, would mean a decimating of the entire
command. The Here-We-Comes could not retreat. They could not hope to
hold their ground. The sole chance for life lay in the arrival of
strong reenforcements from the rear, to help them hold the trenches
until night, or to man the supporting positions. Reserves were within
easy striking distance. But, as happened so many times in the war,
there was no routine way to summon them in time.

It was the chance sight of a crumpled message lying on his dugout-table
that reminded the colonel of Bruce's existence and of his presence in
the front trench. It was a matter of thirty seconds for the colonel to
scrawl an urgent appeal and a brief statement of conditions. Almost as
soon as the note was ready, an orderly appeared at the dugout entrance,
convoying the newly awakened Bruce.

The all-important message was fastened in place. The colonel himself
went to the edge of the traverse, and with his own arms lifted the
eighty-pound collie to the top.

There was tenderness as well as strength in the lifting arms. As he set
Bruce down on the brink, the colonel said, as if speaking to a
fellow-human:

"I hate to do it, old chap. I HATE to! There isn't one chance in three
of your getting all the way up the hill alive. But there wouldn't be
one chance in a hundred, for a MAN. The boches will be on the lookout
for just this move. And their best sharpshooters will be waiting for
you--even if you dodge the shrapnel and the rest of the artillery. I'm
sorry! And--good-by."

Then, tersely, he rasped out the command--

"Bruce! Headquarters! Headquarters! QUICK!"

At a bound, the dog was gone.

Breasting the rise of the hill, Bruce set off at a sweeping run, his
tawny-and-white mane flying in the wind.

A thousand eyes, from the Here-We-Come trenches, watched his flight.
And as many eyes from the German lines saw the huge collie's dash up
the coverless slope.

Scarce had Bruce gotten fairly into his stride when the boche bullets
began to sing--not a desultory little flurry of shots, as before; but
by the score, and with a murderous earnestness. When he had appeared,
on his way to the trenches, an hour earlier, the Germa