"Wha are ye pushin'?"
"You!"
That was enough. Tamson hit out. His friends followed suit. In two minutes the room was a bear-garden. Brooms, pokers, shovels, rifles, and other hefty weapons were being wielded with cool indifference as to the result. Blood, hair, and skin were flying like snowflakes. The lights were smashed, and darkness reigned. Still the fight went on in the inky night. It was serious, so Bludgeon set to with his stick and voice to quell the awful din. This was useless. The fight had got beyond control.
"It's hopeless, sergeant-major. We can't stop this Donnybrook."
"Pretty bad, certainly, but it's got to be stopped."
"Why not sound the alarm?"
"Yes; the very thing," answered Fireworks, dashing out for a bugler. In a few minutes the shrill call of the bugle pierced through the din.
"It's the alarm," a voice yelled.
[pg 215] "Yes—Fall-in!" shrieked Tamson.
The din ceased, and the combatants fled to their rifles, packs, and ammunition-pouches. By the aid of matches and candles they dressed, flung on their equipment, grasped their rifles and dashed breathlessly on to the parade-ground. In twenty minutes every man was present and ready for action—a tribute to the discipline and zeal of the corps.