"Just one letter, sir. And a queer one, too. Here it is," said the colour-sergeant, handing over a dirty, grease-marked epistle. ―――― _Dear Officer_,— I’m in grate pane, my Sweethart Privit Spud Tamson in your Kumpany is gaun wi’ ither weemin. He hisnae ritten me for a fortnicht. And a lad on Pass tell’t me that he wis flirtin’ an’ kissin’ ither lasses (servants in big hooses). He promist tae mairry me owre a year ago, an’ I’ve been savin’ up. It’s jist awfu’. If he disnae stop it, I’ll droon masel’ in the Clyde. Wull ye tell him that, kind sir. I’ll no’ forget ye, and I’ll send ye a pair o’ hame-made socks at Ne’erday. I Am, Yours Respeckfully, _Mary Ann_. "The limit, sir, eh?" "Worse than that. Call that man up." "Yes, sir," said Tamson, unprepared for the revelations concerning his infidelity. "Listen," said the captain, in his most solemn tones. Then he read the amazing document, during which Private Spud Tamson grew red, then white, red again, and finally finished up in a sort of purple, apoplectic hue. "Very serious, Tamson. I’m afraid you are a cabbage-hearted youth. And you seem to have been having the time of your life below stairs." "The lassie’s bletherin’, sir. I wis jist gettin’ a feed. A’ the cooks are kind tae the sodgers." "Cupboard love, I suppose?" "Na, beefsteak, sir." "I’m afraid you’ll be landed in for a breach of promise case. Pretty serious that, Tamson." "I’ll square her a’ richt, sir." "How?" "Buy her a new shawl on piy-day." "It’s not a shawl your Mary Ann wants. It’s love. Do you know what that means?" "Fine, sir." "What is it?" "Oh, kissin’." "Anything else?" "Gettin’ mairret, sir." "And——" "Sausage and eggs for breakfast." "That’s stomach love, Tamson; but there, I expect your heart’s all right. See and write that girl a letter. She’s pretty bad." "All right, sir—ay——" "What?" "Can you lend me a shullin’ tae buy a stamp, sir?" "Yes—when you bring the letter." Thus was Tamson reminded of the obligations of the past. His lapse had only been of a temporary kind. He had simply been enjoying himself in the kitchens of the mighty suburbanites of Mudtown. The much-blotted and effusive epistle which he penned was generously marked with crosses, and in each corner was placed a crude-looking heart with the shaft of Cupid piercing through. Such are the worries of a company officer. CHAPTER XVI. NEW YEAR’S EVE.