gh of rapidfire guns. The bullets hit the upper hillside in swathes,
beginning a few yards behind the flying collie and moving upward toward
him like a sweeping of an unseen scythe.

"That's the wind-up!" groaned Mahan. "Lord, send me an even break
against one of those Hun machinegunners some day! If--"

Again Mahan failed to finish his train of thought. He stared
open-mouthed up the hill. Almost at the very summit, within a rod or
two of the point where the crest would intervene between him and his
foes, Bruce whirled in mid-air and fell prone.

The fast-following swaths of machine-gun bullets had not reached him.
But another German enemy had. From behind a heap of offal, on the
crest, a yellow-gray dog had sprung, and had launched himself bodily
upon Bruce's flank as the unnoticing collie had flashed past him.

The assailant was an enormous and hyena-like German police-dog. He was
one of the many of his breed that were employed (for work or food) in
the German camps, and which used to sneak away from their hard-kicking
soldier-owners to ply a more congenial trade as scavengers, and as
seekers for the dead. For, in traits as well as in looks, the
police-dog often emulates the ghoulish hyena.

Seeing the approaching collie (always inveterate foe of his kind), the
police-dog had gauged the distance and had launched his surprise attack
with true Teuton sportsmanship and efficiency. Down went Bruce under
the fierce weight that crashed against his shoulder. But before the
other could gain his coveted throat-grip, Bruce was up again. Like a
furry whirlwind he was at the police-dog, fighting more like a wolf
than a civilized collie--tearing into his opponent with a maniac rage,
snapping, slashing; his glittering white fangs driving at a dozen
vulnerable points in a single second.

It was as though Bruce knew he had no time to waste from his
life-and-death mission. He could not elude this enemy, so he must
finish him as quickly as possible.

"Give me your rifle!" sputtered Mahan to the soldier nearest him. "I'll
take one potshot at that Prussian cur, before the machine-guns get the
two of 'em. Even if I hit Bruce by mistake, he'd rather die by a
Christian Yankee-made bullet than--"

Just then the scythelike machine-gun fire reached the hillcrest
combatants. And in the same instant a shell smote the ground,
apparently between them. Up went a geyser of smoke and dirt and rocks.
When the cloud settled, there was a deep g