After the halt was given, entraining commenced. Now, it is a rule in the service that when a regiment entrains every door and every bar of the station has to be guarded to prevent the rush for liquid refreshments. Colonel Corkleg had duly provided for this, and smiled grimly as he quickly entrained his men. Nearly all had been settled in their carriages when he was startled by a queer sound from the other side of the line. He went to the end of the train and looked across. "Well, I’m d——," he muttered. This is what had happened. As quickly as the bold Militiamen had been ushered into their compartments, the more daring quietly opened the doors on the other side of the train, jumped down on to the rails and clambering on to the platform rushed the refreshment bar. The colonel saw hundreds struggling and fighting for "a gill and a pint" round three demented waitresses. It was an awkward moment, but Colonel Corkleg had experienced many in his life. For such moments he had one really trusty man. This was Sergeant Bludgeon, the provost-sergeant, an ex-champion wrestler and hammer-thrower. He had muscles like boxing-gloves, and he never struck a man without dislocating his framework. His stick was the most powerful thing in the regiment. It had quelled many mutinies. Thus was it called in again. Sergeant Bludgeon knew what was in the colonel’s brain, for he stood twitching his murderous-looking stick in anticipation of orders. "Sergeant Bludgeon—clear ’em out," the colonel ordered. Bludgeon was across the line in a flash. Like a cyclone he fell on to the stragglers in rear. Half pushing and pitching, he dumped a dozen back on to the rails, then with a superhuman jerk he burst into the bar. His great stick whirled in the air and fell with a terrific clash on to the marble slab. There was a fearful clattering of pots, glasses, and money, as the startled men jumped back; next came a click of heels as Bludgeon thundered, "’Shun." Every man stood as still and erect as Roman sentinels. "About turn." They whipped round like men of the Guards. "Double march," finally roared the provost-sergeant as they scampered out of the bar. In three minutes every man was back in the train. "All correct, sir," said Sergeant Bludgeon grimly, a few minutes later, to the colonel, who had quietly observed the scene. "Any casualties?" queried the colonel with a grin, as he looked at the sergeant’s stick. "None, sir,—this time." "Thank you, sergeant," concluded the colonel, ordering the train to go. As it slipped out amidst the deafening cheers, he turned and remarked to the adjutant— "Useful man, that!—useful man!" "Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.