"Brucie hadn't a one of those things. He didn't know what he was here for--and why he'd been pitched out of his nice home, into all this. He didn't have a chance to say Yes or No. He didn't have any spellbinders to tell him he was ****** the world safe for d'mocracy. He was MADE to come.
"How would any of us humans have acted, if a deal like that had been handed to us? We'd 'a' grouched and slacked and maybe deserted. That's because we're lords of creation and have souls and brains and such. What did Bruce do? He jumped into this game, with bells on. He risked his life a hundred times; and he was just as ready to risk it again the next day.
"Yes, and he knew he was risking it, too. There's blame little he didn't know. He saw war-dogs, all around him, choking to death from gas, or screaming their lives out, in No Man's Land, when a bit of shell had disemboweled 'em or a bullet had cracked their backbones. He saw 'em starve to death. He saw 'em one bloody mass of scars and sores. He saw 'em die of pneumonia and mange and every rotten trench disease. And he knew it might be his turn, any time at all, to die as they were dying; and he knew the humans was too busy nursing other humans, to have time to spare on caring for tortured dogs. (Though those same dogs were dying for the humans, if it comes to that.)"Yes, Bruce knew what the end was bound to be. He knew it. And he kept on, as gay and as brave as if he was on a day's romp. He never flinched. Not even that time the K.O. sent him up the hill for reenforcements at Rache, when every sharpshooter in the boche trenches was laying for him, and when the machine guns were trained on him, too. Bruce knew he was running into death--,then and a dozen other times. And he went at it like a white man.
"I'm--I'm getting longwinded. And I'll stop. But--maybe if you boys will remember the Big Dog--and what he did for us,--when you get back home,--if you'll remember him and what he did and what thousands of other war-dogs have done,--then maybe you'll be men enough to punch the jaw of any guy who gets to saying that dogs are nuisances and that vivisection's a good thing, and all that.
If you'll just do that much, then--well, then Bruce hasn't lived and died for nothing!
"Brucie, old boy," bending to lift the tawny body and lower it into the grave, "it's good-by. It's good-by to the cleanest, whitest pal that a poor dub of a doughboy ever had. I--"Mahan glowered across at the clump of silent men.
"If anybody thinks I'm crying," he continued thickly, "he's a liar. I got a cold, and--""Sacre bon Dieu!" yelled old Vivier, insanely. "Regarde-donc! Nom d'une pipe!"He knelt quickly beside the body, in an ecstasy of excitement.
The others craned their necks to see. Then from a hundred throats went up a gasp of amazement.
Bruce, slowly and dazedly, was lifting his magnificent head!
"Chase off for the surgeon!" bellowed Mahan, plumping down on his knees beside Vivier and examining the wound in the dog's scalp.
"The bullet only creased his skull! It didn't go through! It's just put him out for a few hours, like I've seen it do to men.
Get the surgeon! If that bullet in his body didn't hit something vital, we'll pull him around, yet! GLORY BE!"It was late summer again at The Place, late opulent summer, with the peace of green earth and blue sky, the heavy droning of bees and the promise of harvest. The long shadows of late afternoon stretched lovingly across the lawn, from the great lakeside trees. Over everything brooded a dreamy amber light. The war seemed a million miles away.
The Mistress and the Master came down from the vine-shaded veranda for their sunset walk through the grounds. At sound of their steps on the gravel, a huge dark-brown-and-white collie emerged from his resting-place under the wistaria-arbor.
He stretched himself lazily, fore and aft, in collie-fashion.
Then he trotted up to his two deities and thrust his muzzle playfully into the Mistress's palm, as he fell into step with the promenaders.
He walked with a stiffness in one foreleg. His gait was not a limp. But the leg's strength could no longer be relied on for a ten-mile gallop. Along his forehead was a new-healed bullet-crease. And the fur on his sides had scarcely yet grown over the mark of the high-powered ball which had gone clear through him without touching a mortal spot.
Truly, the regimental surgeon of the "Here-We-Comes" had done a job worthy of his own high fame! And the dog's wonderful condition had done the rest.
Apart from scars and stiffness, Bruce was none the worse for his year on the battle-front. He could serve no longer as a dashing courier. But his life as a pet was in no way impaired.
"Here's something that came by the afternoon mail, Bruce," the Master greeted him, as the collie ranged alongside. "It belongs to you. Take a look at it."The Master drew from his pocket a leather box, and opened it. On the oblong of white satin, within the cover, was pinned a very small and very thin gold medal. But, light as it was, it had represented much abstinence from estaminets and tobacco-shops, on the part of its donors.
"Listen," the Master said, holding the medal in front of the collie. "Listen, while I read you the inscription: 'To Bruce.
From some of the boys he saved from the boches.'"Bruce was sniffing the thin gold lozenge interestedly. The inscription meant nothing to him. But--strong and vivid to his trained nostrils--he scented on the medal the loving finger-touch of his old friend and admirer, Top Sergeant Mahan.
End
