Bruce, his work done now, had leisure to respond to the countless offers of hospitality that encompassed him.  One man brought him a slice of cold broiled bacon.  Another spread pork-grease over a bit of bread and proffered it.  A third unearthed from some sacredly guarded hiding-place an excessively stale half-inch square of sweet chocolate.

Had the dog so chosen, he might then and there have eaten himself to death on the multitude of votive offerings.  But in a few minutes he had had enough, and he merely sniffed in polite refusal at all further gifts.

“See?” lectured Mahan.  “That’s the beast of it!  When you say a fellow eats or drinks ‘like a beast,’ you ought to remember that a beast won’t eat or drink a mouthful more than is good for him.”

“Gee!” commented the somewhat corpulent Dale.  “I’m glad I’m not a beast—­especially on pay-day.”

Presently Bruce tired of the ovation tendered him.  These ovations were getting to be an old story.  They had begun as far back as his training-camp days—­when the story of his joining the army was told by the man to whom The Place’s guest had written commending the dog to the trainers’ kindness.

At the training-camp this story had been reenforced by the chief collie-teacher—­a dour little Hieland Scot named McQuibigaskie, who on the first day declared that the American dog had more sense and more promise and more soul “than a’ t’other tykes south o’ Kirkcudbright Brae.”

Being only mortal, Bruce found it pleasanter to be admired and petted than ignored or kicked.  He was impersonally friendly with the soldiers, when he was off duty; and he relished the dainties they were forever thrusting at him.

But at times his soft eyes would grow dark with homesickness for the quiet loveliness of The Place and for the Mistress and the Master who were his loyally worshiped gods.  Life had been so happy and so sweetly uneventful for him, at The Place!  And there had been none of the awful endless thunder and the bewilderingly horrible smells and gruesome sights which here met him at every turn.

The dog’s loving heart used to grow sick with it all; and he longed unspeakably for home.  But he was a gallant soldier, and he did his work not only well, but with a snap and a dash and an almost uncanny intelligence which made him an idol to the men.

Presently, now, having eaten all he wanted and having been patted and talked to until he craved solitude, Bruce strolled ever to an empty dugout, curled up on a torn blanket there, put his nose between his white paws and went to sleep.

The German artillery-fire had swelled from an occasional explosion to a ceaseless roar, that made the ground vibrate and heave, and that beat on the eardrums with nauseating iterance.  But it did not bother Bruce.  For months he had been used to this sort of annoyance, and he had learned to sleep snugly through it all.