"Na, that's only blank ammunition. Charge!" yelled the leader, leading the way up the bank in an angry and determined style. Soaked as they were, they meant to conquer. It was an awkward moment, and Bludgeon thought that his great scheme was about to fail. Up over the bank came the half-drenched army. But just as they got up to make a final onslaught, Bludgeon rose from behind the hedge. He lifted his big stick in the air, at the same time yelled, "Fix bayonets—charge!"
"Heevens! It's Bludgeon. He'll kill us," yelled a timid soul.
The name of Bludgeon—not the bayonets—was enough. All turned and fell, or scrambled into the now surging stream of water and dashed for home.
"That's one little lot settled," chirped the Napoleonic provost-sergeant, as he listened [pg 212] to the yells of the fast retiring mob. Turning to the firemaster, he thanked him for his services, and, accompanied by Fireworks, made for the main billets of the regiment. But if he had nobly killed the raid on the Mission Hall, he and the sergeant-major had still to reckon with the devotees of Bacchus now running riot in the great rooms in which they lived. This place, so peaceful at "Lights out," was now alive with lights, laughter, and singing. You see, the hour was twelve, and, in accordance with custom, the Glesca Mileeshy were acting up to all traditions.
"Expected that?" said Fireworks, pausing to listen to the awful din.
"Yes," said Bludgeon, gripping his stick in a way that boded ill for the revellers beyond. Through the great doors they quietly slipped, and, in a flash, were inside the rooms of the men. What a sight! Five hundred men, dressed something like Adam in the Garden of Eden, doing cake-walks, Highland flings, and Irish jigs. Some also chirped the "Wee Deoch-an-Doris," while others glibly sang—
"Oh, it's nice tae get up in the mornin',
But it's better tae lie in yer bed."
[pg 213] In another room Bludgeon saw Tamson at the head of a procession of worthies. Round his attenuated shanks was a tattered blanket, on his head a dixey lid, in his right hand a mop, and in the other a bottle, which, alas, was empty. His entourage was dressed in similar style. This procession was accompanied by mouth-organs and melodeons, playing "The Lament of Lochaber," which signified the general wail of the unpaid habitués of the barrack-room. Round and round they went, knocking here and there, and occasionally throwing a more peaceful soul out of his bed and through the window to the green below. Next came a sword-dance by Mickey Cameron, after that a fling by the general company, followed by "The Floo'ers o' Edinburgh," and other well-known barn dances. The entertainment was more pleasant than annoying. Indeed it was so orderly that Bludgeon and Fireworks thought it better to leave them alone. But in the midst of their revelry another company decided to pay a fraternal call. They arrived beating a march on ration tins and old canteens. Unfortunately, they decided to take charge of Tamson's party, and generally boss the show.
[pg 214] "Here," said Tamson, "this is oor pitch—clear!"
"Awa' an' bile yer heid," replied a bulbous-nosed private, giving him a push.