“Coom, men,” he would say, pulling out his gold watch, “ye ken, I suppose, yer three miles is up, set ye down and eat a pound, the mair ye tak into yer stomachs the less ye’ll carry on yer backs.” This over, the watch would be again in requisition, and it would be, “Coom men, yer quarter of an hour is nearly up, ye maun aye be ganging again;” and the men, of course, would fall in. By thus halting every three miles, and eating a pound each time, before we reached Mafra, at the end of the second day’s march, the men had “pounded” the whole of their five days’ rations, and some of them began to growl most confoundedly from the want of provisions. Wishing to know the cause, he sent for the sergeant, and desired him to inquire, when the latter informed him. “Hoot mon, ye dinna say that, do ye? Tell them all to fall in. I fear I maun chop a wee logic with them.” “Oh ye hungry hounds,” he exclaimed, when the men appeared before him. “Ye dinna ken the grand army yet; not content now, ye maun aye whistle then, for ye waunna get in ten days then what your hungry maws have now devoor’d in twa!” saying which, he placed himself at their head, to direct their movements when on the march. I used to liken him to a kite, while the files, of short men after him, reminded me of the tail. His shoulders were so broad and yet so skinny and square, and his height so convenient, that without stirring a peg from the front section, he would wave his sword and look over their heads down the ranks and see every manœuvre. Amongst the convalescents, but very recently from Cockneyshire, was a man named Josias Hetherington. This fellow was one of the queerest I ever met with, and I verily believe had seen _service_ before, but amongst gipsies, prigs, gaol-birds, and travelling showmen. There was not a move but what he was up to, and in addition to these, he was an excellent ventriloquist, and terrified the inhabitants as we went along, whenever an occasion offered.