"Man, I’m a piper in that ’crush.’ You’ll like it—it’s great sport. But mind Sergeant-Major Fireworks. He’s a holy terror. He’s got a chist like a horse, and a breist o’ tin medals. When he howls the dogs start barking, and when he curses he mak’s ye shiver as if ye had the fever. But he’ll mak’ a man o’ ye." "What d’ye get tae eat?" "Hard breid, skilly, bully beef, an’ army duff. You’ll smell the beef a mile away. And mind the blankets." "What’s wrang wi’ them?" "They’re like the picture shows—movin’. But here’s Blacktoon, an’ there’s a sergint waitin’ for ye. I’ll see ye at camp, and mine’s a pint. Ta-ta," concluded the old warrior, as Spud stepped out to meet the sergeant. "I’m Private Spud Tamson," said our hero, saluting the sergeant. "Alright, but don’t salute me—salute the heid yins, that’s the officers. Quick march." And off went Spud and his escort through the streets of Blacktoon. There was a smile as the bold Militiaman went by, and a little gang of unwashed urchins joined the procession, singing— "Oh, this is Jock M’Craw, A sodger in the raw, But Bully Beef and Duff ’ll mak’ him fat an’ tough, And then he’ll be Like Bob M’Gee, A twelve stane three Mileeshiman! Mileeshiman!" CHAPTER II. SPUD ARRIVES AT THE DEPOT. _The_ Depot in Blacktoon was a somewhat ancient affair. In its palmiest days the blood-sucking Hanoverian mercenaries of King Geordie had been quartered there. And during the Russian Scare a score of low jerry-built buildings had been added to house the braw lads hastily summoned to defend their kail-pots and their wives. The Depot was therefore a glorified "Model"—in fact, some of the "Mileeshy" described it as a "bug and flea factory." However, that was not the fault of His Majesty’s Government, but rather the result of collecting from the highways and byways all the odds and ends of humanity. Nevertheless, it was a useful institution from a social reformer’s point of view. In times of stress and unemployment the Depot became a refuge and soup-kitchen for all those who could muster enough chest measurement and say "99" while an old horse surgeon thumped the lungs with his ironlike fists. And strange to say, it was also viewed by the magistrates as a sort of reformative penitentiary. Many a lad summoned before the bailie for sheep-stealing, burglary, wife-beating, or "getting a lassie into bother," was given the option of "sixty days—or jine the Mileeshy." Naturally, these rapscallions preferred the lesser of the evils, and, in this way, the Secretary of State for War was enabled to put on paper that "The Militia was up to the established strength and filled with men of a hardy and soldier-like kind." Still, these men could fight. Wellington, as I have already said, had found the Glesca Mileeshy able to rise to the noblest heights. So, you see, there was enough of tradition to whet the enthusiasm of the warlike Spud, and as he marched through the barrack