"An’ I say, wife, we’ll need tae hae a spree for Spud comin’ hame. Hoo’s the funds?" "Weel, I’ve twa shullin’s, but we can get five mair on your Sunday breeks an’ that auld knock o’ oors." "The very thing. Awa’ the noo an’ see," ordered Tamson. Mrs Tamson wrapped the Sunday trousers and eight-day alarm clock in her apron, then blithely stepped down the stairs on a visit to "Uncle." _En route_ she announced to all in the close that Spud had been made an officer in the Mileeshy, and expected to be a general in a month. "You’ll be haein’ a spree," inquired Mrs M’Fatty, the last to hear the news, and one who shrewdly guessed the meaning of the parcel under Mrs Tamson’s apron. "Ay. He’ll be hame the nicht. I think I’ll get some table beer, iron brew, finnin haddies, gingerbreid, an’ cookies. It’ll be a chinge tae the laddie efter eatin’ biscuits an’ bully beef. But Ta-ta the noo," and off she went to the pawnshop. There, the goods which had been regularly pawned once a week for twenty years, were again handed over in return for cash. All the necessary goods were next secured, after which the happy housekeeper returned to her attic in the Gallowgate. "You’ve been decoratin’," she said with a smile as she entered and saw how the ingenious Tamson had made an arch of Welcome out of coloured rags and streamers of variegated hues from all the coloured paper delivered from the middens. "Jist that, wumin," he answered, tacking up "Welcome Home" above the mantelpiece, which completed the general scheme. "We’ll be prood, prood folks the nicht, missus," Tamson mused as he slipped his arm round her waist and gave her a peck on the washed portion of her face. "It’s a gless o’ beer you’re efter, ma man—ye ken fine hoo tae get roon’ us puir weemin." "Maybe ay, maybe no’, but I’ll no’ refuse it." Meantime Spud Tamson, attired in his best, and with ten shillings in his pocket, was being hurled swiftly from Bogmoor Camp to Glasgow in the train. Just before he was due at the Central Station the melodeon and mouth-organ band of the Murder Close Brigade tramped on to the platform playing "The March of the Cameron Men." A large crowd of girl followers were also present, and in the centre of these smiling hussies was Mary Ann, her chubby face suffused with delight and expectancy. This was the proudest moment of her life, for was she not the chosen lass of Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson of the Glesca Mileeshy? "Here’s the train. Here’s the train," somebody yelled. "Form up," ordered the Chief of the Gallowgate Brigade. A rough line was formed, the melodeons and mouth-organs in front, and, as the train steamed in, these blaring instruments bellowed forth "The Cock o’ the North," while the others let loose a deafening cheer to Spud Tamson, who was hanging out of the carriage with a face like Sunny Jim. "Mary!" "Spud!"