The annual training of the Glesca Mileeshy was an event of importance. It cleared the Models and allowed the local policemen an opportunity for holidays. To the gallant Militiamen the training meant six weeks' pay, a bounty, his shirts, and a pair of boots. The shirts and boots were important items, for many arrived shirtless and almost bootless. As the average Militiaman had no permanent place of abode, he was summoned to camp by a proclamation in big type, which was pasted on the kirk, police, and public-house doors. This notice was hardly necessary. The men enjoyed the training, and were always pleased when the date came round. They journeyed to their headquarters in various ways. Some cheerfully hoofed it; others rode in their [pg 70] tinker's carts; but the majority went by train. When they arrived in Blacktoon, they found a hearty welcome prepared by the local publicans. Tons of bread and cheese were cut and ready; fresh barrels turned on; and hauf mutchkins piled up behind the counter ready for the fray. There was a wild rush for these bars, and above the din nought could be heard but the clamouring for "a gill and a pint."

"Hello, M'Greegor, whaur hae ye been a' this time?"

"In Barlinnie."

"Whut fur?"

"Takin' the len' o' anither chap's watch. But what hae ye been daein' yersel', Wull?"

"The same auld job."

"Naethin'?"

"Na, I'm in the umbrella trade, ye ken, an' the wife's on the road wi' me. She sells laces, an' mooches the grub. Man, it's the best thing I ever did, when I got mairret. There's naething like a wife tae work for ye, lad."

This is a sample of the greetings exchanged over the foaming ale. When all had sufficient, and were more or less groggy about the legs, they sallied out into the streets [pg 71] en route for the barracks. Of course the town was prepared. The Chief Constable had a "Guard of Honour" right to the barracks gate, while the Parish Minister had quietly lectured the old maids and young maids to be indoors on that occasion. The more timid shopkeepers "baured the windows and door," but all the bairns turned out to see the fun. Up the streets they leisurely ambled, some mumbling on the way—

"Soon we'll be married

Never more to part,

For little Annie Rooney

She is my sweetheart."

Others warbled—

"I'm fu' the noo, I'm absolutely fu',

But I adore the country I was born in.

My name is Jock M'Craw,

An' I dinnae care a straw,

For I've something in the bottle for the mornin'."

But the majority sang—

"We're soldiers of the King, my lads,

Who've been, my lads, who've seen, my lads,

The fights for Britain's Glory, lads,

When we've had to show them what we mean;

And when they ask us how it's done,

We proudly point to every one—

Yes, we proudly point to every one

Of Britain's soldiers of the King."

[pg 72] And in this stirring tune all eventually joined, formed into a rough formation, and tramped nobly through the barracks gate and on to the square. Colonel Corkleg's eyes moistened with emotion as he saw them come in. If they were rough dogs, he knew them to be faithful, and he lived for the day when he would lead them into action once more. They were immediately formed into companies, given out their kits, and told to change—but not in the barracks rooms. Oh no, that was never permitted, for the plain reason "that their own clothes could 'walk.'" They changed in the open, which necessitated the drawing of the blinds in the married quarters.

All were thankful to discard their unsanitary rags, and feel the comfort of good shirts, uniforms, and boots. The better suits of clothing were packed away, but many of the more tattered and torn had to be destroyed. This outfitting occupied most of the day. At 5 P.M. the bugle sounded "Fall in." The parade, of course, was unsteady, nearly every man being fu'. But when old Colonel Corkleg yelled, "Glesca Mileeshy—'Shun," there was a lull [pg 73] and a steadiness which displayed the soldier born.

"All present, sir," reported the adjutant.

"Form fours—right—by the left—quick march." Off they stepped to "The Cock o' the North," played by the pipers, and followed by "Stop your ticklin', Jock," drummed out by the band. As they marched through the gates, there was a rousing cheer from the ladies in shawls, who quickly spotted their particular "lovers." These women yelled out a parting jest, and the glib reminder, "Send me a quid oot o' yer bounty."

"Mebbe," was the reply of all, for Militiamen are absent-minded beggars.

Discipline works wonders. By the time the regiment had reached Bogmoor Camp all were thoroughly sober and obedient. Strange to relate, they found themselves camped side by side with the Perth Mileeshy, a notorious body, recruited from the marmalade and jute-making town of Dundee. These regiments were deadly rivals, and the reason was not far to seek. In the Grand Manoeuvres held ten years previous to the camp mentioned, the Perth Mileeshy had [pg 74] mutinied and robbed the Glesca Mileeshy canteen. This terrible breach of courtesy was never forgotten, and anger was always stirred when both corps were deep in their cups. The trouble commenced again on this, the first night in camp. And all through an old Glesca hand, who remembered that the Perth Mileeshy had broken the square in the Soudan Campaign. This daring gent stalked into the Perthshire's canteen.

"What d'ye waant?" asked the waiter, somewhat surlily.

"Ceevility first, and then a pint o' broken squares."

"Chuck him oot! Chuck him oot," shouted a dozen enraged Perthshire hands.

"Gie's that pint," said the Glesca man quite coolly, and after his first mouthful he turned to the "enemy" and remarked, "You couldna chuck your denner oot." This was a challenge quickly accepted. In a flash he was seized and surrounded. But his shouts brought a rallying crowd of the Glesca Mileeshy, and then the battle commenced. Skin, hair, and blood went flying. Men hooched, punched, cursed, and yelled. Burly tramps and burglars laid out their [pg 75] terrific blows on the heads and faces of the puny "Dundee Jam Sodgers," as they were called. In ten minutes the once peaceful canteen resembled a shambles. Tables were destroyed, and the stores of bread, cheese, cigarettes, and beer stolen or scattered around. The fight, originally confined to a hundred men, eventually developed into a tussle between eight hundred. Discipline for the moment was useless. Officers and Non-Coms. were simply swept aside, and though Colonel Corkleg had a scowl on his face, he had a smile in his heart—his men were winning, and he hated the Perth Mileeshy like poison. Nevertheless matters looked black, and something had to be done. This was Spud Tamson's opportunity for fame and lance-corporal. Rushing up to the colonel he saluted and said, "Wull I turn the hose pipe on them, sur?"

"Good idea, my lad. Yes, put it on, full steam ahead."

Spud rushed to the water-stand, fixed up the hose, then running it out he let go. Swish went the cold battering fluid into the angry, struggling mob. Militiamen hate water as much as they do soap. And Spud's [pg 76] terrible shower-bath was too much. They broke and fled, the water and blood trickling down their faces and clothes and damping the stolen goods in their pockets. Just as they dispersed the "Fall in" sounded. All doubled on parade, where the roll was called, and the seething excited mass reduced to silence and order.

"Parade—'Shun," yelled Colonel Corkleg. They sprang up like the Guards' Brigade.

"Every man will empty his pockets of the stolen goods. Then the companies will march in succession off parade."

There was a titter and then a chuckle as the sergeants went round and ordered the looters to lay out their wares on the ground in front. Tins of paste, blacking, polish, cheese, cakes, cigars, cigarettes, buttonhooks, lemonade, &c., were quickly disgorged. When finished each company marched off. When the last one had left the ground the old colonel quietly chuckled as he looked along the sixteen lines of stolen goods.

"D—— rascals, but d—— good soldiers," he muttered. Then, turning to the sergeant-major, he ordered him to return the wares [pg 77] to the much-battered canteen of the Perth Mileeshy.

Next day in the regimental order there appeared: "Promotions—Private Spud Tamson, promoted Lance-Corporal for meritorious conduct."

[pg 78]