_Roadways_ are the mainsprings of an army. They are more precious than jewels. When captured they have to be jealously guarded. For this purpose the drill-book says you must have examination posts. These posts are simply clearing-houses for the liars and laggards of war. It is an important job, and usually given to important men. As the Glesca Mileeshy were the most important gentlemen in the Mixed Division, it fell to them to guard the main highway which led through their lines right into the heart of General Von Burstem’s camp. Captain Coronet’s company, on this occasion, supplied the guard, consisting of Sergeant Killem, Privates Tamson, Muldoon, and Cameron. This observant detachment was posted in a little hut at the cross-roads. The point commanded communication and regulated the flow of spies, patrols, and supplies. Every waggon, motor, officer, and man had to be halted, examined, and passed by the man on sentry-go. The job suited the temperament of Spud Tamson, for he had all the craving for novelty and sensation. He swaggered up and down the beaten path with the air of a new-born subaltern. Nothing escaped him, and as night came he grew still more alert. "Halt—who goes there?" he challenged out. "A Gordon!" was the reply. "Pass, Gordon—all’s well." "Halt—who goes there?" he shouted again. "Black Watch Picket." "Pass, Black Watch—all’s well." "Halt—who goes there?" went his challenge once more. "Wot the ’ell’s it got to do with you?" piped some one in the dark. "Pass, Canadian—all’s well," was the apt retort, which in itself reflects the unruly but otherwise splendid man from the Golden West. For a time there was silence, during which Tamson puffed the smoke out of his dirty old cutty-pipe. Between puffs he mused on the mud and hunger of war, and occasionally switched his fancy back to where his own Mary Ann would be sitting in anxious dread. During this sort of meandering he was roused by the flashing lights of a powerful motor-car. On it came, right up to the barbed wire gate which Spud was guarding. Gripping his rifle in no uncertain fashion, he came down to the charge and bellowed out, "Halt—who goes there?" "Staff officer, you fool—open the gate," said a muffled voice from the front of the car. "Step oot and gie the countersign," ordered Spud. "—— you—open the gate. I’ll report you to your colonel." "Report yer granny—gae me the countersign," persisted Spud, his whole cunning roused by the well-muffled face of this staff officer. The officer jumped from the car. As he did so the alert sentry noted his hand behind his back. Something was wrong. "Stand and gie the countersign."