Bang! went Spud’s iron stanchion. It struck the sword, then Spud gave the "Ghost" a terrific blow below the belt. He howled, then flew at his aggressor like a tiger. In a second the still barrack-room was turned into a boxing-booth. The unseemly noise was so bad that it roused the corporal, "Beery Bob," out of his usual heavy sleep. Well used to these affairs, the corporal, seizing a big stick, jumped out of his bed. Crack went the stick over the nether region of the "Ghost," who at once galloped to bed. Crack went the stick again over Spud’s poor meatless form. There was a yell, and Tamson exclaimed, "It wisna me, corporal! It wisna me!" "Naw, but that wis me. Get tae bed and nae mair o’ yer yelpin’," he said, turning in, while the remainder of the Militiamen were laughing underneath the blankets. Poor Spud, realising that he was amongst the Philistines, immediately camped for the night midst the wreckage of his dreams. CHAPTER III. ESPRIT-DE-CORPS. _Sergeant_ Cursem could drill anything from an elephant to a baboon. His figure was a walking advertisement for Lipton’s, while his voice resembled the rasping fog-horns on the Clyde. He had the eye of an eagle, the moustache of a Kaiser, and the finest vocabulary of curse-words in the Army—hence his name of Cursem. Of course he was a Regular, one specially selected to thump duty, drill, and discipline into the motley array annually enlisted to defend his Majesty, his heirs and successors. His was a tough job, but he managed it. His brute personality and muscular strength were sufficient to repel the insolence and insubordination of the average Glesca keely. Naturally, he was famous. Round the hot plates of the "Models," in the ticketed dens of the Gallowgate, and in the stone yards of Barlinnie, there were ancient heroes who recited his deeds and mimicked his adjectives. And Cursem’s nicknames were legion. "Blowhard," "Hardneck," "Swankpot," and "Grease lightning," were just a few. Still he was popular, for underneath his rough exterior was a heart of gold. Old swaddies delighted to tell of his gallantry, too, for once on the Frontier of India he had slaughtered ten bloodthirsty Pathans in the space of an hour. Spud and his pals, in consequence, always paraded in fear and awe. When Cursem bellowed "Fall in" they trembled, while his thunderous "’Shun" made them shiver and pale.