Truly, the regimental surgeon of the “Here-We-Comes” had done a job worthy of his own high fame!  And the dog’s wonderful condition had done the rest.

Apart from scars and stiffness, Bruce was none the worse for his year on the battle-front.  He could serve no longer as a dashing courier.  But his life as a pet was in no way impaired.

“Here’s something that came by the afternoon mail, Bruce,” the Master greeted him, as the collie ranged alongside.  “It belongs to you.  Take a look at it.”

The Master drew from his pocket a leather box, and opened it.  On the oblong of white satin, within the cover, was pinned a very small and very thin gold medal.  But, light as it was, it had represented much abstinence from estaminets and tobacco-shops, on the part of its donors.

“Listen,” the Master said, holding the medal in front of the collie.  “Listen, while I read you the inscription:  ’To Bruce.  From some of the boys he saved from the boches.’”

Bruce was sniffing the thin gold lozenge interestedly.  The inscription meant nothing to him.  But—­strong and vivid to his trained nostrils—­he scented on the medal the loving finger-touch of his old friend and admirer, Top-Sergeant Mahan.

The end