In another room Bludgeon saw Tamson at the head of a procession of worthies. Round his attenuated shanks was a tattered blanket, on his head a dixey lid, in his right hand a mop, and in the other a bottle, which, alas, was empty. His entourage was dressed in similar style. This procession was accompanied by mouth-organs and melodeons, playing "The Lament of Lochaber," which signified the general wail of the unpaid habitués of the barrack-room. Round and round they went, knocking here and there, and occasionally throwing a more peaceful soul out of his bed and through the window to the green below. Next came a sword-dance by Mickey Cameron, after that a fling by the general company, followed by "The Floo’ers o’ Edinburgh," and other well-known barn dances. The entertainment was more pleasant than annoying. Indeed it was so orderly that Bludgeon and Fireworks thought it better to leave them alone. But in the midst of their revelry another company decided to pay a fraternal call. They arrived beating a march on ration tins and old canteens. Unfortunately, they decided to take charge of Tamson’s party, and generally boss the show. "Here," said Tamson, "this is oor pitch—clear!" "Awa’ an’ bile yer heid," replied a bulbous-nosed private, giving him a push. "Wha are ye pushin’?" "You!" That was enough. Tamson hit out. His friends followed suit. In two minutes the room was a bear-garden. Brooms, pokers, shovels, rifles, and other hefty weapons were being wielded with cool indifference as to the result. Blood, hair, and skin were flying like snowflakes. The lights were smashed, and darkness reigned. Still the fight went on in the inky night. It was serious, so Bludgeon set to with his stick and voice to quell the awful din. This was useless. The fight had got beyond control. "It’s hopeless, sergeant-major. We can’t stop this Donnybrook." "Pretty bad, certainly, but it’s got to be stopped." "Why not sound the alarm?" "Yes; the very thing," answered Fireworks, dashing out for a bugler. In a few minutes the shrill call of the bugle pierced through the din. "It’s the alarm," a voice yelled. "Yes—Fall-in!" shrieked Tamson. The din ceased, and the combatants fled to their rifles, packs, and ammunition-pouches. By the aid of matches and candles they dressed, flung on their equipment, grasped their rifles and dashed breathlessly on to the parade-ground. In twenty minutes every man was present and ready for action—a tribute to the discipline and zeal of the corps. "Well, sergeant-major—what’s up?" asked the adjutant on arriving at the muster-place. "A free fight, sir. Only way to quell it." "What’s that?" interjected the colonel, who, at that moment, made his bow. "A free fight—skin and hair all round. Had to sound the alarm, sir. Only way—absolutely, sir——" "When did you sound it?" "Twenty minutes ago, sir." "Twenty minutes! That’s good business!" "Yes, sir." "Why were they fighting—too much beer?" "The want of it."