Spud, having experienced the usual ragging affairs, was now a full-fledged confidant of the older hands. And being of a mischievous turn of mind, he seized every opportunity to play tricks on his unsuspecting comrades. These ragging affairs were great or small according to the mental and physical fitness of the unfortunates. A powerful recruit was let down easily, for obvious reasons. A weakling or "saftie" had "to go through the mill" in an unorthodox way. Beefy M'Fadyen was of the latter kind. Like all of us, he had a pet delusion. His was, that Nature had destined him for a bantam lightweight. As a matter of fact, Beefy couldn't knock a herring off a plate. Still, that did not prevent him from coddling his puny biceps and tackling all the penny automatic [pg 55] punch-balls in the ice-cream shops of the garrison. He devoured boxing literature by the yard, and would slide down the chimney of the Sporting Club to get a free peep at the cracks of the noble art. Naturally, this tickled the funny side of all, especially Spud, who casually inquired of him one day if he could be his trainer.

"Of coorse," said Beefy.

"What d'ye usually train on?"

"Weel, I've had tae get fit on fish suppers, ice-cream, and woodbines."

"And have you boxed ony champions?"

"Oh ay—Wee Broon o' the Coocaddens, and Pud Webster o' the Gallowgate."

"But they're schule laddies. Hooever, that disnae maitter. I'll get ye in training tae box Curly Broon, the ex-champion o' the Garrison."

"Richt ye are."

"But mind ye, Beefy," said Spud solemnly, "you've tae dae whut I tell ye."

"Certainly."

"Noo, the first thing you've got tae dae is tae haund owre yer piy on piy-days."

"Whut fur?"

"Tae get beef-steaks, kippers, an' four ale—that's the stuff tae get yer muscles up."

[pg 56] This and other arrangements were duly completed. In the evening it was publicly announced that Beefy was in training to fight the champion named. The training was somewhat rigorous. After five gallops round the barrack square, Spud applied a hose-pipe to the body of his man. Then coarse towels were used, and now and again Beefy's limbs were scoured with dripping and bath-brick. As he was a little weak in the joints, a touch of blacking was painted round "tae keep oot the cauld." Minor contests were got up in the meantime, and in all these it was arranged to let Beefy have the knock-out blow. This whetted his ardour, and when he was informed that a belt and thirty shillings was to be the prize at the great contest, he became doubly keen.

One Wednesday afternoon, when the officers were having a lawn-tennis party on the green, Spud called his man into the training quarters. There he daubed the usual blacking on his knee and ankle joints, rubbed ham fat on the remainder of his body; next dressed him up in a comic harrier kit, decorated with a skull and cross-bones.

[pg 57] "Noo, Beefy, d'ye see yon green whaur the ladies an' officers are haein' tea an' tennis?"

"Ay."

"Weel, ye've tae gallop roon' that twenty times wife-beating stoppin'."

"Richt ye are, Spud."

"Ready?"

"Ay."

"Go." Off went the poor, unsuspecting mortal. As soon as he started, a hundred waiting heads popped out of the windows to see the fun. Meantime Beefy had reached the green, and, true to his trust, commenced to gallop round. The colonel's wife spotted him first. The awful apparition sent her pale. Mrs M'Haddie, the Provost's wife, let out a shriek, but nearly all the young ladies and subalterns burst into peals of laughter. Colonel Corkleg, however, fumed and cursed like Marlborough's troops in Flanders.

"Stop——"

"Who——"

"What——"

"Why——" shrieked the old commander, as he pursued Beefy round the green.

Beefy, however, simply grinned in an [pg 58] inane manner and kept on. He was in training for the garrison belt. That, to him, was a very serious affair, and he did not intend to allow any interference—even from Colonel Corkleg. But he had yet to reckon with the adjutant. That officer ordered the bugler to sound the Fall in, at the same time letting loose a couple of bulldogs. The result was that in three minutes half the Glesca Mileeshy were in swift pursuit of the light-footed Beefy. He dodged, then led them round the barrack square, to the secret delight of Spud and his mischief-makers. Then came the end. With a deathlike gasp he fell into the arms of Sergeant-Major Fireworks.

"What do you mean?" yelled this monument of army rations.

"I'm trainin'."

"Training?"

"Ay, trainin' for the garrison belt."

"Put him in the guardroom, corporal," roared the sergeant-major, and off went poor Beefy to the cells.

Next morning the whole story came out at the orderly-room, and Beefy M'Fadyen was awarded fourteen days Confined to Barracks.

[pg 59] This did not postpone the fight. Oh no. Beefy's delusion was a permanent affair, and he would fight his rival by hook or by crook. Arrangements, however, had to be made secretly. The key of the gymnasium was quietly appropriated on the night of the tussle, and after dark the whole regiment trooped in.

"Gentlemen," said Spud Tamson, "allow me to introduce Beefy M'Fadyen, the Champion Bantam Weight o' the Glesca Mileeshy. He has been trained on woodbines, fish suppers, ice-cream, haddies, an' Dublin stout, and turns the scale at 9 st. 10 lb. He's a beauty. His muscles are like corks, and his wind as soond as the wind in bellows—walk up."

Beefy entered the ring, shook hands with Curly Broon, then sparred. All laughter was duly suppressed at a wink from Spud, for his man had to be impressed with the seriousness of the business. Beefy commenced by hopping round like a cat on a hot plate, delivering natty little blows at his opponent's chest. Curly accepted all without any pretence of defence. This roused the hopes of Beefy higher still, and of course he was cheered to his task.

[pg 60] "Go on, Beefy."

"Give him a thick ear."

"Under the belt."

"That's it—slip it across him."

These were some of the remarks. To be brief, in the tenth round, he delivered a severe blow under Curly's chin. With a well-feigned grunt and a hopeless sigh, Curly collapsed like a pack of cards. There was a rousing cheer, and Spud gladly held out his hand to the victor.

Producing a big leather belt made out of old straps and studded with various cap and collar badges, Spud fixed this round the champion's waist. Another member presented a tin medal neatly fixed on some old red serge. Then all let out three lusty cheers.

"Noo, Beefy, you've got tae step intae the officers' mess for your prize-money—jist as ye are. The colonel'll gie ye the money at the table." Unsuspecting, Beefy glibly complied, while Spud and his friends took post in the darkest corners to watch the affair.

The officers were having dinner at the time, in fact they had just arrived at that part where the band plays the National [pg 61] Anthem, and the subaltern of the day proposes the toast of—

"Gentlemen—The King!"

when in burst Beefy M'Fadyen all perspiring and somewhat bruised—a perfect nightmare in his boxing attire. All the young officers burst out laughing, but the colonel roared, "Silence, gentlemen!" Then, turning to Beefy, he said—"How dare you enter the officers' mess? What do you mean, sir?"

"I waant my prize-money."

"What money—you fool?"

"Ma thirty bob for knockin' oot Curly Broon."

"Who sent you here?"

"Spud Tamson."

"Well—get out."

"Nae fear—I waant ma thirty bob. You'll no frichten me," said Beefy, sitting down on a chair.

"You—you—you—insubordinate scoundrel. How—how—dare you!" shouted the old colonel, getting red at the neck.

"Keep your hair on, auld cock," said Beefy.

"Send for the guard, adjutant."

[pg 62] In a few minutes an escort appeared, and Beefy, the vaunted champion, was seized and carried forcibly to the guardroom. All that was heard as he was hustled away was, "I waant ma thirty bob."

Spud Tamson got fourteen days cells for this little trick, and poor Beefy received a paper stating, "You are discharged from His Majesty's Service as unlikely to become an efficient soldier."

"What dis that mean, Spud?" said Beefy, showing him the paper as he was leaving.

"It jist means that you're daft."

"Weel, Spud, I'm no' sae green as I'm cabbage-lookin'. Ta-ta." And this was true, for next day nearly every man in the Glesca Mileeshy had lost his spare shirts, socks, and boots.

"Jings, he's no' sae daft efter a'," was Spud's final comment on the departed boxer.

[pg 63]