"Silence, you red-haired, spud-bred Irishman. I’ll do all the talking here," roared Cursem, his whiskers sticking out like needles and his eyes blazing with anger. "Now, no more nonsense. By the right—quick march. I’ll sweat you to death, and make your shirts stick to your back like glue. About turn—keep your eyes off the colonel’s cook—she’s married and got a family. Right form—come round now—steady—forward—by the right. That’s better. Squad—right turn—leave the canteen clock alone—it’s not twelve yet, and there’s no free beer. Come along, Muldoon,—step out—you get a loaf of bread and a pound of beef to do it on. Halt! Now you can talk about your Mary Ann’s," concluded Cursem, after the first spasm. But the rookies had no wind left to talk. They were content to gasp and study in silence the mountainous personality of Sergeant Cursem. It was also during the minutes at ease that the sergeant discovered the callings and antecedents of his men. "What do you outside?" he inquired of the pimple-nosed M’Ginty. "Everybody, sarjint," replied this sharp imp of the streets. "I _thought_ you were a burglar. And, Muldoon, what’s your calling?" "Gravel crusher, sergint?" "Umph! What’s that?" "Road merchant and milestone counter." "You’re a tinker, eh?" "Ay. Hae ye ony tin cans or umbrellas tae mend—I’ll dae them for a pint?" "No. Now, M’Haggis, what are you?" "A coal merchant." "Where?" "Doon below." "In the pits—I thought that, by your neck. And where did you get the name of Whiskers?" he next inquired of a queer-looking mortal from Cowcaddens. "Frae ma faither. The hair used tae grow oot o’ his nose an’ ears. He wis a Hielanman frae Tobermory." "Umph—I can see the heather sticking out of your toes as well," interjected Cursem. Then turning to Tamson, he asked his pedigree. "Rags and balloons, sergint." "I suppose you push the barrow?" "Na—I blaw the balloons, mak’ the candy, and soond the trumpet for the auld chap." "Where did you get that broken nose?" "In a fish shop." "A fight?" "Ay—an Italian hit me wi’ a bottle for pinchin’ a plate." "Well—you’re a lot of beauties," said Cursem, addressing the crowd. "You could steal the hair off a billiard ball and burgle the Bank of England in broad daylight. But never mind, lads," he continued, in a more intimate and kindly way, "you’re doing your little bit for your country. That’s more than some of the vulgar rich _can_ do. And you can all stop a bullet, or plank a bayonet in a German’s stomach. Hooligans can be heroes just as well as aristocrats. This old Militia was first raised in a prison and died like heroes in the Peninsula. And I’ve seen men like you slicing the heads off big fat niggers out in India. And, mind you, I would sooner lead a company of the Glesca Mileeshy than a company of Oxford grads." "Why, sergint?" ventured one of the squad.