I left him hovering despondently over his equipment and a pile of dirty linen.

We tried the M.G.C.  We were on the best of terms and always had been; they said so.  They apologised in advance for the insanitary conditions I might find; inquired after my health; offered me some coffee and generally loved me; but they couldn’t love my dog.  The Cook even went so far as openly to associate my guileless puppy with a shortage of dried herrings in the sergeants’ mess.

Passing through the E.A.M.C. transport lines I rescued Dustbin from a hulking native mongrel wearing an identity disc.  I judged the Ambulance would not be wanting another dog; but there was still hope with the Salvage Company.

The Salvagier whom I met upon the threshold of the “billet” (half a limber load of bricks and an angle iron) was quite sure the Salvage Company couldn’t take a dog, as they had an infant wild boar and two fox cubs numbering on their strength; but he thought that he could plant my prodigy with a friend of his, a bombardier in the E.G.A., the only other unit within easy distance.  We headed for the E.G.A.

It was just at this point that there occurred one of those little incidents so dear to the comic draughtsman, but less popular with “us.”  A moaning howl, a rushing hissing sound, a moment of tense and awful silence, a devastating crash, and the E.G.A. officers’ bath-house, “erected at enormous trouble and expense” by a handful of T.U. men and myself the day before, soared heavenwards with an acre or two of the surrounding scenery.  “Yes,” said the Salvage gentleman as he regained his perpendicular, “as I was sayin’, ’is size is in ’is favour (you’d better git down ag’in, Corp’l)—­’is size is in ’is favour; ’e’ll go in a dixie easy, or even in a—­(there’s another bit orf the church)—­even in a tin ’at, if you fold ’im up, but I’m ’fraid the ’eads ain’t much in favour of a dog.  Leastways the ole man I know was a member of the Cat Club—­took a lot o’ prizes at the Crys’l Pala...”

“I think we’d better run this little bit, Corp’l,” my guide said suddenly.  It was advisable.  A sprint along some two hundred yards of what had once been a road, with a stone wall (like a slab of gruyere now, alas) upon our right, and we should once more have the comfortable feeling one always enjoys in a “hot” village when there are houses upon either hand.  A trolley load of rations held the middle of the road; the ration party was, I believe, in the ditch upon the left; and a strangled voice exclaimed after each burst, “Oh crummy!  I do ’ope they don’t ’it the onions.”

We gave our forty-seventh impersonation of a pair of starfish, and then legged it for the apparent shelter of the houses.  At least I did; the salvage man, less squeamish, found a haven in an adjacent cookhouse grease-trap and dust-shoot.  I listened intently, but it was only the falling of spent shrapnel, not the patter of Dustbin’s baby but quite enormous feet.  A stove-pipe belching smoke and savoury fumes protruded itself through the pavement on my right.  Through the chinks in the gaping slabs there came the ruddy flicker that bespoke a “home from home” beneath my feet; and then, still listening for signs of Dustbin, I heard—­