"Let's mak' them a' prisoners an' march them to the colonel." This was finally agreed to, and the party sallied out to tackle the first hotel—namely, The Grand, where twenty waiters were employed.
"Whaur are ye gaun?" a sentry asked.
"Active Service," chirped Micky Cameron, giving him a wink.
On arriving at the hotel they tackled the back door. A patriotic kitchen-maid told them that the waiters were upstairs in their bedrooms.
"But there's wan," she remarked, pointing to a portly Teuton carrying a salver into the dining-room.
"Charge!" ordered Tamson. The wild, murderous crew tore like Dervishes through the hall. Poor Otto von Onions was so startled that he dropped his dish of choice grilled steak. Then, realising his danger, he lifted a carving-knife and edged towards the stairs. Kismet was with him. Tamson's army halted to pick up and sample the steaks. This was a golden chance for Otto. He turned and dashed up the stairs.
"Come on, lads," ordered Spud. His [pg 105] men followed with the half-chewed steaks sticking out of their mouths. Up the stairs they panted and yelled, alarming all the guests into a state of hysterics. Old ladies shrieked in terror, while the younger women swooned away on the various landings. At last Otto von Onions was brought to bay. Spud's army found him, knife in hand, at his bedroom door.
"Stops, or I vill kill yous all. I am a naturalusized ceetezan."
"A what?" queried Micky.
"A Breeteesh subjects. I haf Scotteesh wifes and cheeldrens."