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A swift guttural conference among the leaders of the gray-clad marauders was followed by the barking of equally guttural commands. And the Germans withdrew as quietly and as rapidly as they had come. It was the mouthing and jabbering of the fit-possessed Corporal Rudolph Freund that drew to him the notice of a squad of Yankees led by Top-Sergeant Mahan, ten minutes later.
Dusk had merged into night when Bruce got to his feet again. Taps had just sounded. The tired men gladly rolled themselves into their blankets and fell into a dead sleep. A sentry-relief set forth to replace the first batch of sentinels with the second. Mahan was of the party. Though the top-sergeant had been a stupid comrade, thus far to-day, he was now evidently going for a walk.
It was explained that this top-sergeant, Rosenthal by name, had been especially assigned to be our companion our playfellow, as it were; until such time as the long-delayed automobile should appear. Sergeant Rosenthal, who was very proud of his punctured wrist and very hopeful of getting a promotion, went out soon; but it speedily became evident that he had not forgotten us.
And even though it was a duty-walk, yet the idea of it appealed to the dog after his long inaction. So Bruce got up and followed. As he came alongside the stiffly marching top-sergeant, the collie so far subverted discipline as to thrust his nose, in friendly greeting, into Mahan's slightly cupped palm.
A group of soldiers were lounging on the stone seat in front of the village estaminet. Being off duty, they were reveling in that popular martial pastime known to the Tommy as "grousing" and to the Yankee doughboy as "airing a grouch." Top-Sergeant Mahan, formerly of the regular army, was haranguing the others. Some listened approvingly, others dissentingly and others not at all.
Though Mahan's tone of reproof was professionally harsh, his spirit was not in his words. And the silenced private knew it. He knew, too, that the top-sergeant was as savage over the early halt as were the rest of the men. Bruce, as a rule, when he honored the "Here-We-Comes" with a visit, spent the bulk of his time with Mahan and old Vivier.
Major Marchand stepped ahead of Ruth and whispered something to the sentinel. "Guess it's all right, Boss," said the sentinel, who evidently had no French. "But you can't proceed in this direction." "Why not, mon ami?" "New orders. Something doing up front. Wait till my relief comes on in half an hour. Top-sergeant will tell you." "But we must go forward," urged the major, rather vexed.
"With it, you see, I flashed a reflection of the firelight upon the broken panes of that upper window. Our brave young American will discover his mistake before his relief comes. We could not wait for that. Nor could we easily explain to his top-sergeant why we wished to go forward." "Oh!" murmured Ruth again. "In your work, Monsieur, I see you have to take chances with both sides." "It is true.
Thither, at a decorous but expectant pace, Bruce bent his steps. Top-Sergeant Mahan was gazing with solicitous interest upon the toil of the cooks at the wheeled kitchen. Beside him, sharing his concern in the supper preparations, was Mahan's closest crony, old Sergeant Vivier. The wizened little Frenchman, as a boy, had been in the surrender of Sedan.
Top-Sergeant Mahan the big tears splashing, unnoted, from his own red eyes besought the Frenchman to strive for better self-control and not to set a cry-baby example to the men. Then a group of grim-faced soldiers dug a grave. And, carried by Mahan and Vivier, the beautiful dog's body was borne to its resting-place. A throng of men in the gray dawn stood wordless around the grave.
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