"God! It’s the Germans," said a silly youth, as he turned and fled. But the harder cases cursed and charged up towards the foaming nozzles. The firemaster simply increased the water-power and down they went like ninepins, rolling and cursing in the most awful manner. Still, they were all as game as bantams, and cunningly clambered up the banks to make a flank attack. Here another surprise awaited them, for on reaching the top they heard a voice yell out, "Rapid fire". Twenty rifles spat out their lurid, flashing lights. The crash was terrific and terrified many. They rolled and fell back into the foaming lane of water. "Are ye kill’t?" one asked. "Na, that’s only blank ammunition. Charge!" yelled the leader, leading the way up the bank in an angry and determined style. Soaked as they were, they meant to conquer. It was an awkward moment, and Bludgeon thought that his great scheme was about to fail. Up over the bank came the half-drenched army. But just as they got up to make a final onslaught, Bludgeon rose from behind the hedge. He lifted his big stick in the air, at the same time yelled, "Fix bayonets—charge!" "Heevens! It’s Bludgeon. He’ll kill us," yelled a timid soul. The name of Bludgeon—not the bayonets—was enough. All turned and fell, or scrambled into the now surging stream of water and dashed for home. "That’s one little lot settled," chirped the Napoleonic provost-sergeant, as he listened to the yells of the fast retiring mob. Turning to the firemaster, he thanked him for his services, and, accompanied by Fireworks, made for the main billets of the regiment. But if he had nobly killed the raid on the Mission Hall, he and the sergeant-major had still to reckon with the devotees of Bacchus now running riot in the great rooms in which they lived. This place, so peaceful at "Lights out," was now alive with lights, laughter, and singing. You see, the hour was twelve, and, in accordance with custom, the Glesca Mileeshy were acting up to all traditions. "Expected that?" said Fireworks, pausing to listen to the awful din. "Yes," said Bludgeon, gripping his stick in a way that boded ill for the revellers beyond. Through the great doors they quietly slipped, and, in a flash, were inside the rooms of the men. What a sight! Five hundred men, dressed something like Adam in the Garden of Eden, doing cake-walks, Highland flings, and Irish jigs. Some also chirped the "Wee Deoch-an-Doris," while others glibly sang— "Oh, it’s nice tae get up in the mornin’, But it’s better tae lie in yer bed."