There _were_ nights when the wine was rich and merriment strong. On these occasions the spirit of mischief and devilry became rampant. One of these famous nights was the celebration of Captain Coronet’s receiving what he described as another "beastly legacy of fifty thousand from an old aunt, who had cheated her heirs for ninety-five years." The flowing bowl went round. Colonel Corkleg, with "The Dandy Major" and Major Tartan, like true sportsmen, helped to consume a few quarts of champagne vintage. Their red faces and beaming eyes told all that they had reached that stage which demands, for a senior, immediate retirement from the scene of action, so as not to prejudice good order and military discipline. In the privacy of their rooms they supped more wine, damned the Kaiser and the Radicals, and figured out their actual part in the triumphal march through the Unter der Linden. Meantime, the gay young bloods danced and hooched to their hearts’ delight. Choruses, of course, were popular, and many of those songs so dear to all of our public schools echoed out into the still Mudtown night. And then the Tempter came into Jim Longlegs’ brain. "Let’s rag the captains," he whispered round. "Right ho," all cried. Now this is a violation of the unwritten law. A captain in the service is a little tin god. He must not be ragged by his juniors. But the spirit of mischief abounded. Armed with mops, brooms, hose pipes, and minus their caps and jackets, they rushed the captains’ rooms. Danger had been scented. As they entered the sacred sanctum they were received with well-directed douches from buckets of water. This soaked them to the skin, and for a moment checked the general advance. "Charge!" ordered the senior sub. An order is an order, so they promptly obeyed. There was a merry scrum. Jim Longlegs seized the nearest man and promptly commenced to give this somewhat portly person a half-nelson and a duck in a basin. Heavens! when he looked at his antagonist’s face he found it was that of Major Tartan, who had been visiting the captains’ rooms. He was nonplussed for a moment, for a major is like the prophet Allah, one of the Holy of Holies. To even touch a hair of his head is more irreligious than the tearing out of the precious eyes of a Brahmin’s god. But the major was a sport. The temporary astonishment of the senior sub was used by him to the best advantage. With a great effort he encircled Longlegs’ waist, and heaved him with a terrible crash to the floor. The lamp was smashed and the revellers found themselves in darkness. This lessened the fear of the consequences. Beds were lifted and crashed around. Basins were emptied out over the blankets. Brooms smashed through the windows, while many of the captains and subs had their shirts torn from their backs. And then the whistle blew "Retire." The subs retired singing "Rule, Britannia," and yelling