Beefy, however, simply grinned in an inane manner and kept on. He was in training for the garrison belt. That, to him, was a very serious affair, and he did not intend to allow any interference—even from Colonel Corkleg. But he had yet to reckon with the adjutant. That officer ordered the bugler to sound the Fall in, at the same time letting loose a couple of bulldogs. The result was that in three minutes half the Glesca Mileeshy were in swift pursuit of the light-footed Beefy. He dodged, then led them round the barrack square, to the secret delight of Spud and his mischief-makers. Then came the end. With a deathlike gasp he fell into the arms of Sergeant-Major Fireworks. "What do you mean?" yelled this monument of army rations. "I’m trainin’." "Training?" "Ay, trainin’ for the garrison belt." "Put him in the guardroom, corporal," roared the sergeant-major, and off went poor Beefy to the cells. Next morning the whole story came out at the orderly-room, and Beefy M’Fadyen was awarded fourteen days Confined to Barracks. This did not postpone the fight. Oh no. Beefy’s delusion was a permanent affair, and he would fight his rival by hook or by crook. Arrangements, however, had to be made secretly. The key of the gymnasium was quietly appropriated on the night of the tussle, and after dark the whole regiment trooped in. "Gentlemen," said Spud Tamson, "allow me to introduce Beefy M’Fadyen, the Champion Bantam Weight o’ the Glesca Mileeshy. He has been trained on woodbines, fish suppers, ice-cream, haddies, an’ Dublin stout, and turns the scale at 9 st. 10 lb. He’s a beauty. His muscles are like corks, and his wind as soond as the wind in bellows—walk up." Beefy entered the ring, shook hands with Curly Broon, then sparred. All laughter was duly suppressed at a wink from Spud, for his man had to be impressed with the seriousness of the business. Beefy commenced by hopping round like a cat on a hot plate, delivering natty little blows at his opponent’s chest. Curly accepted all without any pretence of defence. This roused the hopes of Beefy higher still, and of course he was cheered to his task. "Go on, Beefy." "Give him a thick ear." "Under the belt." "That’s it—slip it across him." These were some of the remarks. To be brief, in the tenth round, he delivered a severe blow under Curly’s chin. With a well-feigned grunt and a hopeless sigh, Curly collapsed like a pack of cards. There was a rousing cheer, and Spud gladly held out his hand to the victor. Producing a big leather belt made out of old straps and studded with various cap and collar badges, Spud fixed this round the champion’s waist. Another member presented a tin medal neatly fixed on some old red serge. Then all let out three lusty cheers.