“I think I told you I tried to get across to France at the very start—­and I was barred because I am past forty and because I have a bum heart and several other defects that a soldier isn’t supposed to have.  My wife and I have tried to do what little we can for the Cause, on this side of the ocean.  But it has seemed woefully little, when we remember what others are doing.  And we have no son we can send.”

Again he cleared his throat and went on with sulky ungraciousness: 

“We both know what you’ve been driving at for the past five minutes.  And—­and we agree.  Bruce can go.”

“Great!” applauded the guest.  “That’s fine!  He’ll be worth his—­”

“If you think we’re a couple of fools for not doing this more willingly,” went on the Master with savage earnestness, “just stop to think what it means to a man to give up the dog he loves.  Not to give him up to some one who will assure him a good home, but to send him over into that hell, where a German bullet or a shell-fragment or hunger or disease is certain to get him, soon or late.  To think of him lying smashed and helpless, somewhere in No Man’s Land, waiting for death; or caught by the enemy and eaten! (The Red Cross bulletin says no less than eight thousand dogs were eaten, in Saxony alone, in 1913, the year before the war began.) Or else to be captured and then cut up by some German vivisector-surgeon in the sacred interests of Science!  Oh, we can bring ourselves to send Bruce over there!  But don’t expect us to do it with a good grace.  For we can’t.”

“I—­” began the embarrassed guest; but the Mistress chimed in, her sweet voice not quite steady.

“You see, Captain, we’ve made such a pet—­such a baby—­of Bruce!  All his life he has lived here—­here where he had the woods to wander in and the lake to swim in, and this house for his home.  He will be so unhappy and—­Well, don’t let’s talk about that!  When I think of the people who give their sons and everything they have, to the country, I feel ashamed of not being more willing to let a mere dog go.  But then Bruce is not just a ’mere dog.’  He is—­he is bruce.  All I ask is that if he is injured and not killed, you’ll arrange to have him sent back here to us.  We’ll pay for it, of course.  And will you write to whomever you happen to know, at that dog-training school in England, and ask that Bruce be treated nicely while he is training there?  He’s never been whipped.  He’s never needed it, you see.”

The Mistress might have spared herself much worry as to Bruce’s treatment in the training school to which he was consigned.  It was not a place of cruelty, but of development.  And when, out of the thousands of dogs sent there, the corps of trainers found one with promise of strong ability, such a pupil was handled with all the care and gentleness and skill that a temperamental prima donna might expect.

Such a dog was the big American collie, debarked from a goods car at the training camp railway station, six weeks after the Mistress and the Master had consented to his enlistment.  And the handlers treated him accordingly.