"Ay, you—ye hinnae paid for yer wean—ye low rascal. But I'll pit the polis on ye—ye'll no diddle me."
"Yer haverin'; awa' an' waash yer een;" and on marched the careless prodigal to the train.
"Haw, look at oor Jock—he's the only man in step," yelled the admirer of Jock Broon, a fifteen-stone corporal, whose belt was too small and tied with string.
[pg 95] "Is that oor Tam?" queried a half-blind woman, as a rakish-looking youth went by.
"He's thin enough for a pull through," interjected a friend of Tam's.
"An' there's Puddin' Johnson—he's awfu' like a barrel."
"I weesh I wis a barrel—I'm awfu' dry," answered the man concerned.
Behind this valiant stepped Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson, his chest puffed out like a bantam and his calves well stuffed with cotton wool. He was an important person, for he marched in the supernumerary rank. Dignity was part of his job. Still, he had time to wink at the lassies as he went by. Close to the station he sighted his fond parent somewhat elated with the thoughts of war, and aided by the cheapest gin. He would show him something.
"Left—right—left—March by the right," yelled Spud, as his section struggled and rolled up to the waiting train.
"Guid, Spud! Guid! You've the bluid o' the Tamsons. Man, I'm prood o' ye." Spud winked and passed on.