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Page 58
He stretched himself lazily, fore and aft, in collie-fashion.
Then he trotted up to his two deities and thrust his muzzle
playfully into the Mistress's palm, as he fell into step with the
promenaders.
He walked with a stiffness in one foreleg. His gait was not a
limp. But the leg's strength could no longer be relied on for a
ten-mile gallop. Along his forehead was a new-healed bullet-
crease. And the fur on his sides had scarcely yet grown over the
mark of the high-powered ball which had gone clear through him
without touching a mortal spot.
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
End of Project Gutenberg's etext, Bruce by Albert Payson Terhune
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