He dropped in to tea, quite casually; forced an entry through the mud
wall of our barn, in fact. No, he wouldn't sit down--expected to be
leaving in a few minutes; but he didn't mind if he did have a sardine,
and helped himself to the tinful. Yes, a bit of bully, thanks,
wouldn't be amiss; and a nice piece of coal; cockchafers very good too
when, as now, in season; and, for savoury, a little nibble with a yard
of tarred string and an empty cardboard cigarette-box. Thank you very
much.
"Why, the little brute's a perfect dustbin," said my mate; and
"Dustbin" the puppy was throughout his stay with us.
For six weeks did Dustbin--attached for rations and
discipline--accompany us on our sanitary rounds; set us a fine example
of indifference to shell fire, even to the extent of attempting
to catch spent shrapnel as it fell; and proved the wettest of wet
blankets to the "socials" of the local rats. Then, as happens with
sanitary inspectors in France, there arrived late one afternoon
a despatch requesting the pleasure of my society--in five hours'
time--at a village some twenty kilos distant as the shell flies. I
found I should have fifteen minutes in which to pack, four hours for
my journey, and forty-five minutes between the packing and the start
in which to find a home for Dustbin.
"Take the little dorg off you?" said a Sergeant acquaintance in the
D.A.C. "I couldn't, Corp'l. Why, I don't even know how I'm goin' to
take the foal yonder"--he glared reproachfully at a placid Clydesdale
mare and her tottering one-day-old; "and 'ow I'm goin' to take my posh
breeches--"
I left him hovering despondently over his equipment and a pile of
dirty linen.
We tried the M.G.C. We were on the best of terms and always had been;
they said so. They apologised in advance for the insanitary conditions
I might find; inquired after my health; offered me some coffee and
generally loved me; but they couldn't love my dog. The Cook even went
so far as openly to associate my guileless puppy with a shortage of
dried herrings in the sergeants' mess.
Passing through the E.A.M.C. transport lines I rescued Dustbin from
a hulking native mongrel wearing an identity disc. I judged the
Ambulance would not be wanting another dog; but there was still hope
with the Salvage Company.
The Salvagier whom I met upon the threshold of the "billet" (half a
limber load of bricks and an angle iron) was quite sure the Salvage
Company couldn't take a dog, as they had an infant wild boar and two
fox cubs numbering on their strength; but he thought that he could
plant my prodigy with a friend of his, a bombardier in the E.G.A.,
the only other unit within easy distance. We headed for the E.G.A.
It was just at this point that there occurred one of those little
incidents so dear to the comic draughtsman, but less popular with
"us." A moaning howl, a rushing hissing sound, a moment of tense
and awful silence, a devastating crash, and the E.G.A. officers'
bath-house, "erected at enormous trouble and expense" by a handful of
T.U. men and myself the day before, soared heavenwards with an acre
or two of the surrounding scenery. "Yes," said the Salvage gentleman
as he regained his perpendicular, "as I was sayin', 'is size is in
'is favour (you'd better git down ag'in, Corp'l)--'is size is in 'is
favour; 'e'll go in a dixie easy, or even in a--(there's another bit
orf the church)--even in a tin 'at, if you fold 'im up, but I'm 'fraid
the 'eads ain't much in favour of a dog. Leastways the ole man I
know was a member of the Cat Club--took a lot o' prizes at the Crys'l
Pala..."
"I think we'd better run this little bit, Corp'l," my guide said
suddenly. It was advisable. A sprint along some two hundred yards
of what had once been a road, with a stone wall (like a slab of
_gruyère_ now, alas) upon our right, and we should once more have the
comfortable feeling one always enjoys in a "hot" village when there
are houses upon either hand. A trolley load of rations held the middle
of the road; the ration party was, I believe, in the ditch upon the
left; and a strangled voice exclaimed after each burst, "Oh crummy! I
do 'ope they don't 'it the onions."
We gave our forty-seventh impersonation of a pair of starfish, and
then legged it for the apparent shelter of the houses. At least I
did; the salvage man, less squeamish, found a haven in an adjacent
cookhouse grease-trap and dust-shoot. I listened intently, but it was
only the falling of spent shrapnel, not the patter of Dustbin's baby
but quite enormous feet. A stove-pipe belching smoke and savoury fumes
protruded itself through the pavement on my right. Through the chinks
in the gaping slabs there came the ruddy flicker that bespoke a "home
from home" beneath my feet; and then, still listening for signs of
Dustbin, I heard--
"Didn't I tell you, Erb, to stop up that extra ventilation 'ole with
somethin'?--and now look wot's blown in. 'Ere, steady on, ole man;
that's got to last four men for three days."
"Well, I'm ----," chimed in another voice, "if the bloomin' tin ain't
empty. Why, I only just opened it--that's a 'ole Maconochie 'e's got
inside 'im, not countin' wot you've just.... Poor little beggar must
be starvin'. You're welcome to stop and share our grub, young feller,
but I've got to go on p'rade wiv that--that's a belt, that is...."
I turned towards the dimly lighted road that led to ---- [Censored].
Dustbin had found a home.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FATEFUL SESSION.