Accommodation was also difficult. No more tents could be had. Twenty men were therefore crammed into these little canvas homes. To avoid a plague and prevent bloodshed, the colonel ordered all men to place their socks outside the tents. If you know the Militia you will understand. But even tents have their limits. The newer arrivals had to be billeted in the homes of the citizens near by. These Weary Willies lolled in their feather beds like princes. It was a hustling time. The colonel cursed from reveille till tattoo. Still, in seven days he had the job done, and wired to the War Office—"Ready." Back came the reply, "Proceed at once to Mudtown, for Coast Defence." "Coast Defence!" muttered the old colonel, purple with rage. "Coast Defence!...!...?..." His after-remarks cannot be printed, for he was a true soldier. He wanted to see Red Blood—not the billets of a seaside town. He could handle his men in a battle like a boy playing "bools," but billets, he knew, meant worry, trouble, and crime. Still, orders were orders, and he at once obeyed. In three hours the regiment stood in marching order, and to the tune of "Hielan’ Laddie" blithely marched to the train. It was followed by thousands—wives, sweethearts, mothers, and friends. There were tears, cheers, and jeers. "Here’s a scone, Jimmy, keep up yer heirt," said an old budie, throwing a tartan-coloured scone to her son. "Hie, you!" shouted a woman in a shawl to a roguish-looking private with an amorous leer in his eye. "Me!" he answered mockingly. "Ay, you—ye hinnae paid for yer wean—ye low rascal. But I’ll pit the polis on ye—ye’ll no diddle me." "Yer haverin’; awa’ an’ waash yer een;" and on marched the careless prodigal to the train. "Haw, look at oor Jock—he’s the only man in step," yelled the admirer of Jock Broon, a fifteen-stone corporal, whose belt was too small and tied with string. "Is that oor Tam?" queried a half-blind woman, as a rakish-looking youth went by. "He’s thin enough for a pull through," interjected a friend of Tam’s. "An’ there’s Puddin’ Johnson—he’s awfu’ like a barrel." "I weesh I wis a barrel—I’m awfu’ dry," answered the man concerned. Behind this valiant stepped Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson, his chest puffed out like a bantam and his calves well stuffed with cotton wool. He was an important person, for he marched in the supernumerary rank. Dignity was part of his job. Still, he had time to wink at the lassies as he went by. Close to the station he sighted his fond parent somewhat elated with the thoughts of war, and aided by the cheapest gin. He would show him something. "Left—right—left—March by the right," yelled Spud, as his section struggled and rolled up to the waiting train. "Guid, Spud! Guid! You’ve the bluid o’ the Tamsons. Man, I’m prood o’ ye." Spud winked and passed on.