Another patrol went forth, but to no purpose. The screaming and scuffling continued, to the annoyance of the officers and the secret delight of the men. To understand it better, let us picture the scene. In each dark corner, and beneath every great oak tree, was a loving couple. These youthful warriors and their girls were lost to the world. What mattered the Germans? What mattered the waiting sergeants who were calling the roll in the billets beyond? They loved and were beloved. And so into each servant and shop-girl’s ear they poured those words which have thrilled all women since the advent of Eve. So lost were they in this fairyland that none heard the crawling patrols of the Glesca Mileeshy. The real enemy mattered little to these warriors. It was the Terriers’ blood they desired. Into each nook and up to each tree went these rascals. Just as each pair were renewing their bonds of affection in a long—long—kiss there was a general shout of "Hands up" all over the Mudtown Common. "Oh!" shrieked the girls. "Get out," roared the Terriers. "Hands up," persisted the Militiamen, presenting their glittering bayonets in a manner distressful to the anatomy of the men. This menacing attitude, with the fierce expression on the tough faces of the aggressors, sent nearly all the ladies into tears and hysterics. But all the tears and shrieks were of little avail. They were prisoners, and, as such, would be presented to the powers that be. They cursed and struggled, but the rifle slings and bootlaces of their captors eventually subdued all resistance. Pitiful they looked; more pitiful were the girls who followed their captured braves, with handkerchiefs to their eyes. This, then, was the awful din which Colonel Corkleg had heard. Louder it grew as the returning warriors neared the zone of flashing torchlights, which now indicated the end of the operations and the position of the outpost lines. "In the name of Heaven, what is this?" ejaculated the C.O. on seeing one patrol emerging into the light with four battered Terriers and their weeping lovers. "Prisoners, sir," was a Tommy’s blunt reply. "What—more of them?" he again remarked as a great big sergeant was carried in, all gagged and bound. This was the scout-sergeant who had played his part so well in the old village inn. The colonel recognised the N.C.O., and inwardly chuckled. "Still more, sir," ventured the adjutant, as four more patrols came forward with the battered remnants of the Territorial Force. "But these men are not the enemy," insisted the colonel in his official tone. "Na, sir, but they _were_ the enemy the ither day. We’re piyin’ them back," chirped Micky Cameron. "Ay! an’ here’s an officer," gleefully yelled a brave then coming into the light. "A what?" queried the now startled colonel. "An officer, sir," said Spud Tamson, saluting proudly as he presented the form of a young subaltern who had been having a quiet stroll with the daughter of the Brigadier.