"Well—I suppose some concession has to be made," he muttered, walking to the head of the column. "Battalion—’Shun!" All sprang up like Guardsmen. "Look here, men, I don’t mind you making a butcher’s shop of a German’s face, but I object to your doing that with your own. They are not too pretty at the best of times. If you make them worse you’ll frighten every woman in Mudtown. However, you have turned out remarkably quick. And as you are not required on a Hun-hunting expedition, I propose—on this special occasion—to march you all to the canteen and give you a pint of beer. But, mark you, if I hear a word from you after you go to bed again, I’ll have the canteen closed for a month, and feed you on salt herrings, just to tickle your thirst and teach you forbearance. Understand?" "Yes, sir," roared a thousand voices. "Parade—dismiss." As each company went by they gave old Corkleg a smart salute, and sang, "For he’s a jolly good fellow." Bludgeon got a bottle of Scotch, a box of cigars, and a new blackthorn cudgel, "for services rendered," as the colonel tersely put it, when handing over the gifts. "Thank you, sir," said Bludgeon. "Welcome! Welcome! And when we all meet down below, Bludgeon, I’ll have you appointed provost-sergeant to Old Nick." CHAPTER XVII. WAR. _The_ preceding chapters have given you the fun of the game, but do not imagine the training of this corps was fun—and nothing more. The Glesca Mileeshy spent many weary days and nights preparing for war. Every weakness was found and ruthlessly eradicated. Every loafer and weed was booted out. At the end of their training, one and all were as tough as tinkers, and fit to shoot the tail of a sparrow at 500 yards. Better still, every man was out to conquer and to kill. Colonel Corkleg was proud of them, and he deserved to be, for, as old "Sunny Jim," the G.O.C., had said, "They were the pride of the Mixed Division." Imagine their bearing and think of their cheers on being ordered to move. Of course, the Kirk-session of Mudtown made no protest about their departure. The regiment mustered 1020 strong, and on their backs was piled everything, from a shovel to a beer bottle. A thrill of pride ran up the backbone of every officer as they viewed the throng, while old Colonel Corkleg felt the strings of emotion pulling at his old heart. Keen he was to fight and win; keen even to die at the cannon’s mouth. But he knew the cost of war, and realised that ere the game was done many of his gallants would bite the dust, thus adding to the roll of the widows and fatherless. However, duty was a stern call. He received the adjutant’s report of "All present" with the same stiff air which marked his attitude on all parades. "Battalion—’Shun! Advance in fours from the right of companies—Number one leading."