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
_gruyere_ 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 fee