"’It was Algy,’ telegraphed the police from London, for he was arrested there, and got five years’ penal servitude. "Now, who do you think Algy was?" "Tell us," cried Spud. "Algy was the biggest crook in London. He was proved to be the man who stole King Edward’s dressing-bag at Euston Station." Just as Dominie had completed this yarn, the whole canteen was startled with the shout, "Who’s a liar?" "You are—you stole ma pint o’ beer—ye thocht I wis drunk." "Awa’ an’ bile yer heid," said the aggressor, a tramp piper, whose doublet was well soaked with ale. Bang! went the fist of the aggrieved private on the piper’s nose. In a second the place was turned topsy-turvy. All joined in the fight. Lamps were smashed, tables crashed on the floor, glasses hurled across the room, and all the windows cracked. For ten minutes a deadly battle was waged in the inky darkness. And then some one shouted, "Scoot, boys, scoot—here’s the picket coming." And they did scoot. Some jumped through the windows, others hustled through the doors, and then half-staggering and running they reached their barrack-rooms, where, like true Militiamen, they tumbled quietly into bed. Next morning the Glesca Mileeshy paraded with black eyes and battered noses. As this was the usual thing after pay-day, the colonel simply smiled, and gave the order, "Form fours—right—double march." While they were galloping round the square, this commander remarked, "D—— rascals, but d—— good soldiers." "Yes, sir," replied the adjutant. CHAPTER VI. THE GARRISON LIGHTWEIGHT. _Spud_, having experienced the usual ragging affairs, was now a full-fledged confidant of the older hands. And being of a mischievous turn of mind, he seized every opportunity to play tricks on his unsuspecting comrades. These ragging affairs were great or small according to the mental and physical fitness of the unfortunates. A powerful recruit was let down easily, for obvious reasons. A weakling or "saftie" had "to go through the mill" in an unorthodox way. Beefy M’Fadyen was of the latter kind. Like all of us, he had a pet delusion. His was, that Nature had destined him for a bantam lightweight. As a matter of fact, Beefy couldn’t knock a herring off a plate. Still, that did not prevent him from coddling his puny biceps and tackling all the penny automatic punch-balls in the ice-cream shops of the garrison. He devoured boxing literature by the yard, and would slide down the chimney of the Sporting Club to get a free peep at the cracks of the noble art. Naturally, this tickled the funny side of all, especially Spud, who casually inquired of him one day if he could be his trainer. "Of coorse," said Beefy. "What d’ye usually train on?" "Weel, I’ve had tae get fit on fish suppers, ice-cream, and woodbines." "And have you boxed ony champions?" "Oh ay—Wee Broon o’ the Coocaddens, and Pud Webster o’ the Gallowgate."