The Master himself had taken Bruce to the transport, in Brooklyn, and had led him aboard the overfull ship.  The new sights and sounds around him interested the home-bred collie.  But when the Master turned him over to the officer in whose charge he was to be for the voyage, Bruce’s deep-set eyes clouded with a sudden heartsick foreboding.

Wrenching himself free from the friendly hand on his collar, he sprang in pursuit of his departing deity,—­the loved Master who was leaving him alone and desolate among all these strange scenes and noises.  The Master, plodding, sullen and heavy-hearted, toward the gangway, was aware of a cold nose thrust into his dejected hand.

Looking down he beheld Bruce staring up at him with a world of stark appeal in his troubled gaze.  The Master swallowed hard; then laid his hand on the beautiful head pressed so confidingly against his knee.  Turning, he led the dog back to the quarters assigned to him.

“Stay here, old friend!” he commanded, huskily.  “It’s all right.  You’ll make good.  I know that.  And there’s a chance in a billion that you’ll come back to us.  I’m—­I’m not deserting you.  And I guess there’s precious little danger that any one on The Place will ever forget you.  It’s—­it’s all right.  Millions of humans are doing it.  I’d give everything I’ve got, if I could go, too.  It’s all right!”

Then Bruce understood at last that he was to stay in this place of abominations, far from everything he loved; and that he must do so because the Master ordained it.  He made no further effort to break away and to follow his god ashore.  But he shivered convulsively from head to foot; and his desolate gaze continued to trace the Master’s receding figure out of sight.  Then, with a long sigh, he lay down, heavily, his head between his white forepaws, and resigned himself to whatever of future misery his deities might have ordained for him.

Ensued a fortnight of mental and bodily anguish, as the inland-reared dog tasted the horrors of a voyage in a rolling ship, through heaving seas.  Afterward, came the landing at a British port and the train ride to the camp which was to be his home for the next three months.

Bruce’s sense of smell told him the camp contained more dogs than ever he had beheld in all his brief life put together.  But his hearing would have led him to believe there were not a dozen other dogs within a mile of him.

From the encampment arose none of the rackety barking which betokens the presence of many canines, and which deafens visitors to a dog-show.

One of the camp’s first and most stringent rules forbade barking, except under special order.  These dogs—­or the pick of them—­were destined for work at the front.  The bark of a dog has a carrying quality greater than the combined shouting of ten men.  It is the last sound to follow a balloonist, after he has risen above the reach of all other earth-noises.