"Ah, Corkleg," interjected the Brigadier, "I thought you knew better. Scouts are the only privileged absentees at this game. Have a look in the nearest public-house," concluded the Brigadier as he rode away, well pleased with the work of "those d—— amateurs," as Colonel Corkleg had termed the enemy. By the way, this defeated colonel _did_ look for his missing men. With his adjutant he rode towards the village. As they neared the inn, sounds of revelry rent the air. A cracked piano was playing "Tipperary," while many fuddled voices mumbled out the words of this popular air. "Tipperary" was followed by a general shout of— "Oh, we won’t go home till morning, We won’t go home till morning, We won’t go home till mor-n-n-ing, And so say all of us." "’Shun!" roared the adjutant, as he led the way into the tap-room. Spud Tamson disengaged his arm from the barmaid’s neck and jumped, or, rather, staggered to attention with his pals. "What are you men doing here?" "We’re scouts," answered all, with one accord. "And who are you?" inquired the colonel of the Territorial’s sergeant and his party. "Scouts, sir." Corkleg stamped out and rode home like the Kaiser in a rage. For the next ten days the scouts of the Glesca Mileeshy were under the care of Sergeant Bludgeon, the police sergeant. His total prohibition campaign made them thirsty, but not wiser, men. Any chapter on training must also refer to night operations, generally called Night Attacks. These operations are never popular in times of training. They interfere with social engagements. The finest dinners have to be refused, and the most amorous engagements cancelled. These attacks in real war are simply organised nightmares to shorten the life of the enemy. They are difficult, and only successful under the most favourable conditions. Mistakes always happen. And, to an officer, such sorties are anxious affairs. Think of leading a company, every man of which has a bayonet as keen as a razor edge. Remember that every bayonet is carried at the "Charge." If there is a sudden halt in the course of the advance, the officer’s anatomy generally acts as a sort of buffer for the nearest blade. Indeed, it is safe to assert that the reason for an officer’s quick and gallant advance in the assault is not his thirst for death ahead, but his fear of death from some careless fellow behind. To prevent such accidents, the officers of the Glesca Mileeshy always carried coats, canteens, and a general emporium on their backs. These articles were most useful as a shield in case of accidents.