Of low degree--a mere butcher’s dog--he nevertheless, like Napoleon, possessed a great soul in a little body. All he needed to rise from the ranks was an opportunity, and erelong it came. When, in the spring of 1853, a battalion of the Scots Fusileer Guards was stationed at Windsor, Bobby began to haunt the barracks. The butcher, his master, came for him several times and took him home, only to find his place vacant again the next day. He yielded at last to the inevitable, and Bobby went his way without hindrance. A soldier he would be; a soldier he was; and, as his True History relates, never failed to be first on parade, and was always ready to forage. In 1854 he embarked on the Simoon with his friends for the Crimea. The first day out, he came near being thrown overboard as a vagrant, but being claimed by the entire battalion, was allowed to stay. [Illustration: BOBBY, THE DOG WHO WOULD BE A SOLDIER.] He served at Malta, Scutari and Varna; was returned as missing from the Alma, but reappeared in time for the wild battle storm of Balaklava. Surviving this, he was heard of next at Inkermann, where he proved his courage by chasing spent cannon balls over the bloody field. A medal rewarded this feat, and was worn by him suspended from a collar of Fusileer buttons linked together in a chain. He was present at several other battles; and when, after the fall of Sebastopol, the battalion returned to England, Bobby marched into London at its head--the observed of all observers. And now it might be supposed that he would rest on his laurels and grow old in peace. Alas! he had escaped from Balaklava only to meet destiny in London. In 1860 he was run over by a cart, and instantly killed. Some say it was a butcher’s cart--which would imply a certain prosaic justice in his fate--the profession he had scorned thus avenging itself. The poodle Moustache enhanced the glories of the Consulate and Empire. He was present at Marengo and at Jena; he once detected a spy; he saved several lives; and finally, at Austerlitz, when the standard-bearer of his regiment fell mortally wounded, he sprang forward, seized the colors from the very grasp of the enemy, and bore them in triumph to his fellow-soldiers. It was the deed of a hero, and its recompense was such as heroes love. Maréchal Lannes received Moustache upon the field of battle, praised him, thanked him in the name of all, and then, bending down, fastened to his neck--the cross of the Legion of Honor!