"Thanks," said the major, walking to the lamp. Opening out the note-book, he quickly read the contents. He was as fascinated as he was surprised. "Well, sergeant, this _is_ a good night’s work. Who caught him?" "Me, sir," chirped Spud, clicking his heels and giving a smart salute. "You know your job. I’ll see the General about you. You ought to be a sergeant. Good-night all." "Good-night, sir." Next morning Private Spud Tamson had a paragraph of praise in Divisional Orders, and at night the colonel of the Glesca Mileeshy informed him that he was pleased to promote him to sergeant. The examining guard had brought Spud Tamson fame. A few days later the newly-promoted sergeant was also given the job of taking out a standing night patrol towards the enemy’s lines. For this purpose he was allowed to select his men. Muldoon and Micky Cameron were, of course, in the band. It was a dangerous job, yet Spud was not alarmed. It suited his nature and whetted his ardour for the all-precious D.C.M. ’The Field Training Manual’ has it that patrols are primarily intended for reconnaissance, not fighting,—in other words, to see without being seen. Spud remembered this. He was also aware that the German commissariat was badly managed. Perhaps that accounted for his stuffing of bread and meat into the haversacks of his party. The men were also ordered to keep their tongues and rifles from barking, and when the enemy was spotted—to lie down. Having duly impressed his little band with these instructions, he gave the order to march. Away they went, Spud at the head. Like cats, they stalked on the metalled roadway for almost a mile. "Halt!" whispered Spud on nearing a long line of trees which he knew were occupied by the outposts of the enemy. Then all lay down. For a time they could see nothing in the darkness, but gradually their eyes grew accustomed to things. A crunching of feet told its own tale of sentry-go, and a few minutes later the patrol discerned two men at the edge of the wood. "Micky, you come wi’ me," said Spud to his old friend Cameron. "You others stiy here. If you think we’re gettin’ done in, come owre an’ len’ a haund. But mind, nae shootin’—the bayonet, every time." "Right ho, Spud," was the willing response as the sergeant and Micky crawled away on their hands and knees. For twenty minutes they wriggled like snakes. Luck and the shadows favoured them. They finished up fifty yards from the German sentries. "Here, Spud," whispered Micky, "this is sudden daith for us." "Are ye feart, ye puddin heid." "Na, I’m no’ feart, but are we no’ daft?" "Blethers! Noo, look here, Micky, get yer haversack haundy, an’ mind the breid." "What’s that for?" "Catchin’ them." "Catchin’ them?" queried Micky. "Ay, jist like catchin’ canaries. But, listen, when thae chaps turn their backs, mak’ a jump for it. Nae killin’, though. Haunds up, and then gie them a lump o’ breid." "Breid?"