"I’m prood o’ ye, son," said Mrs Tamson. "Here, tak’ yer faither’s shirt and Sunday breeks and pawn them. You’ll get twa shillin’s on them. And bring back a gill o’ the best, twa bottles o’ table beer, an’ a pun’ o’ ham. We’ll hae a feast afore ye gang tae the Mileeshy," concluded his mother, as she handed Spud the articles for pawning. He blithely stepped off, and on his return was followed by all the thirsty members of the "Murder Close Brigade." "Here’s tae Private Spud Tamson of the Glesca Mileeshy," said Mrs Tamson, raising a glass to her lips, and giving Spud a look of pride. "Ay, he’ll be a braw sodger," chimed in an old wife. "If it wisnae for his legs," said Tamson senior. "Let’s hae a sang," interjected "Hungry Bob," another relative who was a professional militiaman. All were agreed, and Bob commenced to sing— "Their caps were tattered and battered, And jackets faded and worn, Their breeches ragged wi’ crawling When boosey and a’ forlorn; Yet when dressed in the tartan They’re the pride o’ the women’s eye, Are the Rusty, Dusty, Deil-may-care, Plucky Auld G.L.I." "Hear! hear!" echoed the audience, sipping up the last of the refreshments, then rising to follow Spud to the station. "What’s up?" asked the neighbour, Mrs M’Fatty, as she saw the crowd go marching out of the close. "D’ye no’ ken—Spud Tamson’s jined the Mileeshy!" "D’ye tell me! But he’s got bachle legs and bleary een. A braw sodger he’ll mak’," said the other with a snicker. "Oh, but he’ll blaw up weel when he gets a skinfu’ o’ skilly and army duff," said Mrs M’Fatty, shutting her door again. Meantime Spud was marching to the station, headed by the melodeon and tinwhistle band of the "Murder Close Brigade." It was the proudest day of his life, and he stuck out his chest as he marched into the Central Station. "In here," said the old sergeant, getting him by the scruff of the neck and half pitching him into a railway carriage for Blacktoon. The whistle blew, and as the train moved out his friends shouted— "Keep oot o’ the Nick, Tamson." "Pawn your claes an’ send me the ticket." "I’ll come oot tae see ye," said his faither. "If you’re no in Barlinnie," shouted Spud as a last farewell, then collapsed down on the seat, to the disgust of a woman next to him. "Dinnae smother ma wean," she said. "I’m sorry, missus. I thocht it wis a doll." "Did ye, ye impident keely. If I wis your mither I wid hae drooned ye." "I’m ower bonny for that," answered Spud in a good-humoured way. "Ha! ha! ha! What a face!" "What’s wrang wi’ ma face?" "It’s like a burst German sausage." "She’s got ye that time," said an old packman in the opposite corner; "but whaur are ye gaun?" "Tae jine the Mileeshy."