"They’re spies," declared Spud, who had read all the penny horribles in his days. "Ay, ’yin o’ them gied me a pint, an’ asked me hoo mony men were in the regiment." "I tell’t ye," declared our heroic lance-corporal, who then declared his intention of leading an attack on the German waiters. "A’m wi’ ye," declared Micky Cameron. "An’ me." "An’ me." "An’ me," shouted many others all over the room. That settled the attack, and made Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson conjure up visions of fame and promotion by his daring night raids on the hotels. A conference was next called to discuss details. "Should we shoot them?" asked Micky. "Na, that’ll mak’ owre much noise," interjected Spud. "I’ve an awfu’ guid razor," remarked Beefy M’Lean, as he thumbed a murderous-looking blade. Other methods were suggested, such as pole-axing, hanging, and tying them up in barbed wire. But the cautious spirit, engendered by Tamson’s stripe, ruled all these murderous designs out of order. "Let’s mak’ them a’ prisoners an’ march them to the colonel." This was finally agreed to, and the party sallied out to tackle the first hotel—namely, The Grand, where twenty waiters were employed. "Whaur are ye gaun?" a sentry asked. "Active Service," chirped Micky Cameron, giving him a wink. On arriving at the hotel they tackled the back door. A patriotic kitchen-maid told them that the waiters were upstairs in their bedrooms. "But there’s wan," she remarked, pointing to a portly Teuton carrying a salver into the dining-room. "Charge!" ordered Tamson. The wild, murderous crew tore like Dervishes through the hall. Poor Otto von Onions was so startled that he dropped his dish of choice grilled steak. Then, realising his danger, he lifted a carving-knife and edged towards the stairs. Kismet was with him. Tamson’s army halted to pick up and sample the steaks. This was a golden chance for Otto. He turned and dashed up the stairs. "Come on, lads," ordered Spud. His men followed with the half-chewed steaks sticking out of their mouths. Up the stairs they panted and yelled, alarming all the guests into a state of hysterics. Old ladies shrieked in terror, while the younger women swooned away on the various landings. At last Otto von Onions was brought to bay. Spud’s army found him, knife in hand, at his bedroom door. "Stops, or I vill kill yous all. I am a naturalusized ceetezan." "A what?" queried Micky. "A Breeteesh subjects. I haf Scotteesh wifes and cheeldrens." "Oh, you’ve more than wan wife, eh?" asked Spud. "No! No! One wifes." "You’re a spy," roared Micky, advancing under the cover of a broom. "I keel you! I keel you!" shrieked the foreigner. "Awa’ an’ kill yer granny," roared the intrepid Militiaman, striking him with the broom and wresting the knife right out of his hand. "No keel me—no keel me—kind shentlemans. I give you moneys—wheesky—ceegars."