Sergeant Maloney was placed under arrest, and every man was marched back to the guardroom. This little incident cost the small sum of two hundred pounds. The officers gladly paid—for the honour of the regiment. But the affair was chronicled deep in regimental memories, especially in the canteen, where the culprits received a certain amount of hero-worship. "It wis d—— guid," as Tamson often remarked. Another interesting phase of modern training is scouting. Each battalion has about twenty men trained for this job. The toughs of a battalion make the best scouts. They will face anything, from a mad bull to a German Division. Life to them is cheap. They glory in slitting an enemy’s throat and getting back with sound news. Naturally the training of such gentlemen in peace times is troublesome. They _will_ get lost. Any colonel will tell you that at manœuvres he sees his scouts at the beginning of an attack, seldom during or after the mimic battles, especially in a district where inns and hospitable old ladies abound. For example, in one great fight on the Hills of Mudtown, Colonel Corkleg was determined to win the day. Information of the enemy’s whereabouts was, of course, absolutely essential for victory. For this he hailed his worthy band of scouts. Spud Tamson was one. They were told to double out a mile or so ahead and get in touch. As soon as they located the enemy, all were instructed to retire at once with their reports. Gleefully they marched away. Their intentions were good, but, alas! Colonel Corkleg was opposed by a colonel of a Territorial Corps who had studied well the temperament of the Militiamen against him. This alert Terrier instructed his scout officer to bag the enemy’s scouts at all costs, and see that they were well treated. "I understand, sir," replied his alert intelligence officer. This smart young subaltern marched off his merry men towards the enemy. He did not worry about using his glasses or sending his men ahead to crawl through hedges and drain-pipes. No, he simply marched them to the village, which lay in the centre of the manœuvre area. There was only one inn. In that hostelry he was sure to find the opposing Buffalo Bills. "Steady," he cried, as they drew near. Creeping forward, he peered through a corner of a window. Yes, there they were, sitting round a table and enjoying four ale of an appetising kind. There was another attraction—a buxom wench of eighteen, who had singled out Spud Tamson as the object of her jests and affection. This bold young man was leering into her eyes with a persistency akin to the style of Don Juan. "Good!" muttered the subaltern as he crept back again to his waiting men. "Sergeant." "Yes, sir," answered the subaltern’s henchman. "Here’s five shillings. Take half the men and get inside there. Pay for all they want and keep them merry. Whatever you do, see that they are well entertained for two hours."