Mary Ann's sleep that night was one long rosy dream. She lived in a land of love, and the hero of it all was this gallant Lance-Corporal of the Glesca Mileeshy. She longed for the coming day, to renew the hours of bliss; but, alas! that never came. For her early slumbers were shaken by the newsboys' cry of "War—Troops for the Front." Her first thoughts were of Spud, and she [pg 87] flew to his abode, but all she saw was Mrs Tamson, as pale as death, and sitting with a tear-stained telegram in her hand.

"Spud's awa'—read that," said she to Mary, with a sob. The girl gripped it feverishly, then saw—

"Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson Regiment for Active Service Rejoin immediately.

Adjutant."

Adjutant."

"God help me!" shrieked the girl, swooning away on the floor, for the poor can love perhaps more truly than the rich.

[pg 88]

CHAPTER X.
MOBILISATION.

When Spud arrived at Bogmoor Camp he found the regiment in an excited but jovial mood. They were going to war. War, to militiamen, meant bounties, blood, and loot. Though these men were, in many ways, the scrapings of humanity, they had those rugged, almost brutal qualities essential in war. Like bulldogs, they could bite, and once having nibbled an enemy, they could hang on till the end. Of course the regiment was not up to war strength in officers or men. That deficiency, however, was being attended to. Hundreds of men had been already wired for. These were known as the Militia Reserve, or "The Royal Standbacks," to quote the barrack-room wags. All day they came trooping in; some from the open road, others from the Model, a few quite recently [pg 89] from the jail. They all looked like villains in their muddy rags, but once in khaki, many had the appearance of real good Guardsmen. Naturally, there were many reunions, and these had to be sealed in beer. The canteen quickly became a Tower of Babel, wreathed in thick tobacco smoke, and permeated with the nauseating breath of the merry Falstaffs, who incessantly called for the proverbial pint. Discipline was not exacted on this, the first day. It was useless to expect it; the officers knew the calibre of their men.

While the men were thus celebrating the "Great Day," and discussing how they would dispose of Kaiser Bill, the officers were also arriving from many corners of the land. Some came post-haste from the grouse moors; others had hurried from Piccadilly; a few had been dug out of ruined castles, where they represented a poor but splendid nobility. Of course there were new hands. These gentlemen came from the O.T.C., in official language, The Officers' Training Corps. This is an organisation devised by a great War Minister to create heroes out of Carnegie's pet children at our universities. In theory, a perfect system: in practice, [pg 90] at times disappointing. There being no compulsion, the more robust students had shunned the Corps, leaving its ranks open to a few keen, and a greater number of the health culture species, who recognised that a drill-sergeant might improve their chest measurement and digestion. Still it was a scheme acquired in the Lager-laden garrisons of Germany, and we Britishers, perforce, had accepted it as the hall-mark of German military efficiency. However, Second Lieutenants Briefs, Coals, and Grain were detached to this Militia regiment and duly arrived. Briefs, who was studying for the law, arrived in a greatcoat, with an umbrella above his military accoutrements to keep off the rain. As this umbrella trick was the particular prerogative of the late Duke of Cambridge, Briefs was immediately arrested by his brother subalterns for being "Improperly dressed," and forced to pay drinks all round. Drinks all round are very expensive in His Majesty's Service. He never erred again. Second Lieutenant Coals was vomited out of one of his father's pits. He was as black as the devil's waistcoat, and as big as a bullock. He didn't know much about form fours, but he could kill [pg 91] a pit pony with a punch and chuck a man over his head. "A useful man," the colonel whispered to the adjutant, and then in a louder tone remarked, "Put Mr Coals in No. 3 Company." This company, by the way, had its records in the poaching and wife-beating annals of every Parish Council. Coals was therefore in a sphere where his hulking personality would be useful.

Second Lieutenant Grain had the smell of horses about him. He was studying for medicine, but he knew more about his father's Clydesdales. Indeed, when he arrived, his boots had the scent of the stable, and his coat a few stray wisps of straw sticking around. A rough but likely looking chap. The colonel saw this, and after looking him up and down remarked, "You'll be transport officer. Here are some warrants—go out anywhere, everywhere, for two days. Commandeer 107 horses, and mind—no crocks."