The journey to Mudtown was a long one—sufficiently long to allow some of the inebriates time to soak into their bodies a few "hauf mutchkins" and some bottles of Bass. This refreshment, with the heat and roll of the train, quickly let loose the lung-power of the crowd. They sang, danced, and yelled with a devilish delight, and at times threatened disaster to every window and every N.C.O. in the carriages. Poor Spud Tamson shivered in his corner. He was in charge of eight tough-looking pirates, who knew neither fear nor pain. Fortunately they regarded Spud’s stripe as a necessary evil, and eventually left him alone. And so pandemonium reigned till Mudtown came in sight. The fame of the Glesca Mileeshy had travelled before them. There was no civic welcome. The Provost had locked his chain and robes of office up in his safe; while his nervous citizens sat fearfully in their little suburban homes. In every manse the minister prayed for guidance in the coming trials; while every mother gathered her daughters round and told them that, on no account, must they go out at nights. They became still more alarmed when the news trickled round that the regiment was to be billeted in church halls, picture houses, and other public buildings near. It was monstrous, they argued. How dare the War Office do such a thing? They would protest. Poor ignorant souls, they did not know their danger. They never realised the perils of invasion; nor the fact that they had in their midst the toughest and finest bunch of fighters in the British Army. Drunkards and devils, may be, but soldiers to a man. Meantime, the tradesmen of Mudtown beamed with delight. They had no use or time for the men as men, but they were delighted with the prospect of a boom in trade. And, of course, the publicans were careful to hoist the Union Jack above their barrels, and put out the sign, "All Soldiers Welcome Here." A bugle-call in Mudtown Station was the signal to get out of the train. The men rolled, jumped, and staggered down. The more merry chorused— "I’m fu’ the noo, I’m absolutely fu’, But I adore the country I was born in. My name is Jock M’Craw, But I dinnae care a straw, For I’ve something in the bottle for the mornin’." "Silence," roared the mountainous Sergeant-Major Fireworks. His voice made the station tremble, and the men gave a perceptible shiver as they fell into the ranks. Sergeant-Majors are wonderful men.