"I'm prood o' ye, son," said Mrs Tamson. "Here, tak' yer faither's shirt and Sunday breeks and pawn them. You'll get twa shillin's on them. And bring back a gill o' the best, twa bottles o' table beer, an' a pun' o' ham. We'll hae a feast afore ye gang tae the Mileeshy," concluded his mother, as she handed Spud the articles for pawning. He blithely stepped off, and on his return was followed by all the thirsty members of the "Murder Close Brigade."
"Here's tae Private Spud Tamson of the Glesca Mileeshy," said Mrs Tamson, raising a glass to her lips, and giving Spud a look of pride.
"Ay, he'll be a braw sodger," chimed in an old wife.
"If it wisnae for his legs," said Tamson senior.
"Let's hae a sang," interjected "Hungry [pg 7] Bob," another relative who was a professional militiaman. All were agreed, and Bob commenced to sing—
"Their caps were tattered and battered,
And jackets faded and worn,
Their breeches ragged wi' crawling
When boosey and a' forlorn;
Yet when dressed in the tartan
They're the pride o' the women's eye,
Are the Rusty, Dusty, Deil-may-care,
Plucky Auld G.L.I."
"Hear! hear!" echoed the audience, sipping up the last of the refreshments, then rising to follow Spud to the station.
"What's up?" asked the neighbour, Mrs M'Fatty, as she saw the crowd go marching out of the close.
"D'ye no' ken—Spud Tamson's jined the Mileeshy!"
"D'ye tell me! But he's got bachle legs and bleary een. A braw sodger he'll mak'," said the other with a snicker.