gates he swung out his pigeon chest, tightened up his shanks, and swaggered across the parade in the style of a braw "Mileeshiman." The sergeant marched him straight to where Sergeant-Major Fireworks was standing. "Halt!" the sergeant commanded. Then addressing the sergeant-major, said, "Private Spud Tamson from Glasgow, sir." "Umph! You’re a beauty. What are you—a burglar or wife-beater, eh?" "Naw, I’m Spud Tamson, rag merchant, frae Glesca." "Say ’sir’ when you speak to me. And keep your legs to attention. You’re a soldier now! Don’t scowl at me; I’ll have no dumb insolence from you, understand! And remember, you belong to the Glesca Mileeshy, the right of the line and the terror of the whole world." "I ken a’ aboot that. Ma uncle wis in it." "What was his name?" "Rab M’Ginty." "M’Ginty! Why, that was the d—— rascal who sneaked my trousers and stole a barrel of beer." "Ay, that’s him. He’s got an’ awfu’ thirst. I think he’s got a sponge in his thrapple." "Very well. You’ll go to ’A’ Company. March him off, sergeant." And away went Spud to join the leading company of his regiment. He was introduced to a barrack-room where twenty men lived under the rule of a red-nosed corporal nicknamed "Beery Bob." The walls of this room were whitewashed and decorated here and there with photos of boxers and ballet girls in tights. Along each side of the room were the little iron beds with rolled-up mattresses and blankets neatly folded. A single shelf contained each man’s belongings, while at the end of the room there was a cupboard to hold the rough bread, greasy margarine, and chipped iron bowls and plates. To the sensitive eye the place just looked like a prison, but the average Militiaman regarded it as a palace, for he hailed from a brute creation who only know squalor and misery. Indeed, it was frequently argued that to house these men in a more artistic sphere would be stupid, for the simple reason that they would wipe their feet with the tablecloths and use the saucers for the boot blacking. In any case, it was life under the crudest conditions. On a pay-day it was simply Hell. Dinner was being served as Spud entered. This consisted of a greasy-looking stew, coupled with queer-looking potatoes. The old soldiers, of course, made sure of receiving the biggest share. This was an unwritten law, handed down from the Army of the Romans, and it was _infra dig_. for the recruit to object. Imagine the surprise of the hungry Spud Tamson on sitting down to a bone and a couple of potatoes. It was too much for his fiery nature, and, on observing the plate of an old Die-hard next to him, which was loaded up with the choicest titbits, he remarked to him, "You’re like Rab Haw—you’ve eyes bigger than your belly." "Nane o’ yer lip, or I’ll knock your pimpled face intae mincemeat." "Wid ye! D’ye think I’m saft?" "Shut up, I tell ye." "Tha’ll no’ frichten me, auld cock—I’m gem."