He had no need to repeat his command so often and so strenuously.  Bruce was a trained courier.  The one word “Camp!” was quite enough to tell him what he was to do.

Turning, he faced the American lines and tried to break into a gallop.  His scent and his knowledge of direction were all the guides he needed.  A dog always relies on his nose first and his eyes last.  The fog was no obstacle at all to the collie.  He understood the Sergeant’s order, and he set out at once to obey it.

But at the very first step, he was checked.  Mahan did not release that feverishly tight hold on his mane, but merely shifted to his collar.

Bruce glanced back, impatient at the delay.  But Mahan did not let go.  Instead he said once more: 

“Camp, boy!”

And Bruce understood he was expected to make his way to camp, with Mahan hanging on to his collar.

Bruce did not enjoy this mode of locomotion.  It was inconvenient, and there seemed no sense in it; but there were many things about this strenuous war-trade that Bruce neither enjoyed nor comprehended, yet which he performed at command.

So again he turned campward, Mahan at his collar and an annoyingly hindering tail of men stumbling silently on behind them.  All around were the Germans—­butting drunkenly through the blanket-dense fog, swinging their rifles like flails, shouting confused orders, occasionally firing.  Now and then two or more of them would collide and would wrestle in blind fury, thinking they had encountered an American.

Impeded by their own sightlessly swarming numbers, as much as by the impenetrable darkness, they sought the foe.  And but for Bruce they must quickly have found what they sought.  Even in compact form, the Americans could not have had the sheer luck to dodge every scattered contingent of Huns which starred the German end of No Man’s Land—­most of them between the fugitives and the American lines.

But Bruce was on dispatch duty.  It was his work to obey commands and to get back to camp at once.  It was bad enough to be handicapped by Mahan’s grasp on his collar.  He was not minded to suffer further delay by running into any of the clumps of gesticulating and cabbage-reeking Germans between him and his goal.  So he steered clear of such groups, making several wide detours in order to do so.  Once or twice he stopped short to let some of the Germans grope past him, not six feet away.  Again he veered sharply to the left—­increasing his pace and forcing Mahan and the rest to increase theirs—­to avoid a squad of thirty men who were quartering the field in close formation, and who all but jostled the dog as they strode sightlessly by.  An occasional rifle-shot spat forth its challenge.  From both trench-lines men were firing at a venture.  A few of the bullets sang nastily close to the twelve huddled men and their canine leader.  Once a German, not three yards away, screamed aloud and fell sprawling and kicking, as one such chance bullet found him.  Above and behind, sounded the plop of star-shells sent up by the enemy in futile hope of penetrating the viscid fog.  And everywhere was heard the shuffle and stumbling of innumerable boots.