I think I may state it as a fact that if it had not been for the loss of that coffee-pot we should never have eaten the cook’s dog.  It came about in this natural—­or perhaps I should say unnatural—­way.  In the early days of the siege, you see, some poor wretch who lived near our hospital possessed, as is almost always the case with a Frenchman removed a quarter of a degree, say, above abject poverty, a favorite dog.  One day his beast and house were made glad by the appearance of two pups.  They were tawny, bright-eyed little fellows, and the Frenchman loved them with a love that the Anglo-Saxon knows not of, especially in the matter of dogs.  Well, provisions got scarcer and scarcer, and finally, with an anguish that I have no right to ridicule, and as the only thing left for him to do, the poor Frenchman brought his pups around and presented them to the cook of our hospital.  Here the little fellows waxed fat and strong, and were soon great favorites, not only of the good-natured cook, but of all the fellows of the ambulance.  Perhaps you never saw a pot of horse-soup boiling:  if you have, you will never forget the great blotches of fat that float upon the surface of it.  Many skimmings of this did John Cook, as we used to call our chef, put aside for the pups.  In the course of time, however, famine began to invade the ambulance.  The canned meat and the hams had long since disappeared; a horse belonging to one of our corps, found overtaken by mysterious death in his stall, had been devoured; but the two pups, fat and tender, no one ventured to attack.  And they had the powerful protection of the cook.  Still, it made our mouths water to see them gambol in their sleekness.  At length came the memorable morning of the last sortie at Montretout.  Then for the first time we mounted the cook upon our coffee-pot wagon, with an extra large brassard around his arm, allowing him about three times the ordinary amount of linen to show how peacefully and culinarily he was neutral.  Poor fellow!  I am sorry to say he was soon demoralized that day.  The coffee he had brewed was a success, but he could not stand Krupp shells.  Long before one of them had exploded under his coffee-pot he had wanted to go home.  At that fearful moment he completely lost his head and—­his white cap.  How he got back to the hospital not even himself ever knew.  It was long after nightfall when he wandered in, weary, listless, sorrowful.  One of the pups came up to greet him as he crossed the threshold of the kitchen.  The chef met that welcome with an unfeeling kick, he was so demoralized.  The fate of the pup was sealed.  Scarce had the cook found his way to a bed in one of the tents when the scullions made for the pup, and had his fat frizzing on the gridiron and his bones dancing in a seething soup-pot.  We all had a feast that night.  Even the cook himself had a greasy morsel brought to his bedside.  But somehow thenceforth the name of that dog was never mentioned, and his brother led a more luxurious, a sleeker life than ever.  We had learned, I think, the old moral of being moved by sorrow for the dead to be kinder to the living.