"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.