"Form fours—right—by the left—quick march." Off they stepped to "The Cock o’ the North," played by the pipers, and followed by "Stop your ticklin’, Jock," drummed out by the band. As they marched through the gates, there was a rousing cheer from the ladies in shawls, who quickly spotted their particular "lovers." These women yelled out a parting jest, and the glib reminder, "Send me a quid oot o’ yer bounty." "Mebbe," was the reply of all, for Militiamen are absent-minded beggars. Discipline works wonders. By the time the regiment had reached Bogmoor Camp all were thoroughly sober and obedient. Strange to relate, they found themselves camped side by side with the Perth Mileeshy, a notorious body, recruited from the marmalade and jute-making town of Dundee. These regiments were deadly rivals, and the reason was not far to seek. In the Grand Manœuvres held ten years previous to the camp mentioned, the Perth Mileeshy had mutinied and robbed the Glesca Mileeshy canteen. This terrible breach of courtesy was never forgotten, and anger was always stirred when both corps were deep in their cups. The trouble commenced again on this, the first night in camp. And all through an old Glesca hand, who remembered that the Perth Mileeshy had broken the square in the Soudan Campaign. This daring gent stalked into the Perthshire’s canteen. "What d’ye waant?" asked the waiter, somewhat surlily. "Ceevility first, and then a pint o’ broken squares." "Chuck him oot! Chuck him oot," shouted a dozen enraged Perthshire hands. "Gie’s that pint," said the Glesca man quite coolly, and after his first mouthful he turned to the "enemy" and remarked, "You couldna chuck your denner oot." This was a challenge quickly accepted. In a flash he was seized and surrounded. But his shouts brought a rallying crowd of the Glesca Mileeshy, and then the battle commenced. Skin, hair, and blood went flying. Men hooched, punched, cursed, and yelled. Burly tramps and burglars laid out their terrific blows on the heads and faces of the puny "Dundee Jam Sodgers," as they were called. In ten minutes the once peaceful canteen resembled a shambles. Tables were destroyed, and the stores of bread, cheese, cigarettes, and beer stolen or scattered around. The fight, originally confined to a hundred men, eventually developed into a tussle between eight hundred. Discipline for the moment was useless. Officers and Non-Coms. were simply swept aside, and though Colonel Corkleg had a scowl on his face, he had a smile in his heart—his men were winning, and he hated the Perth Mileeshy like poison. Nevertheless matters looked black, and something had to be done. This was Spud Tamson’s opportunity for fame and lance-corporal. Rushing up to the colonel he saluted and said, "Wull I turn the hose pipe on them, sur?" "Good idea, my lad. Yes, put it on, full steam ahead."