SPUD ARRIVES AT THE DEPOT.
_The_ Depot in Blacktoon was a somewhat ancient affair. In its palmiest
days the blood-sucking Hanoverian mercenaries of King Geordie had been
quartered there. And during the Russian Scare a score of low jerry-built
buildings had been added to house the braw lads hastily summoned to
defend their kail-pots and their wives. The Depot was therefore a
glorified "Model"--in fact, some of the "Mileeshy" described it as a
"bug and flea factory." However, that was not the fault of His Majesty's
Government, but rather the result of collecting from the highways and
byways all the odds and ends of humanity. Nevertheless, it was a useful
institution from a social reformer's point of view. In times of stress
and unemployment the Depot became a refuge and soup-kitchen for all
those who could muster enough chest measurement and say "99" while an
old horse surgeon thumped the lungs with his ironlike fists. And strange
to say, it was also viewed by the magistrates as a sort of reformative
penitentiary. Many a lad summoned before the bailie for sheep-stealing,
burglary, wife-beating, or "getting a lassie into bother," was given the
option of "sixty days--or jine the Mileeshy." Naturally, these
rapscallions preferred the lesser of the evils, and, in this way, the
Secretary of State for War was enabled to put on paper that "The Militia
was up to the established strength and filled with men of a hardy and
soldier-like kind." Still, these men could fight. Wellington, as I have
already said, had found the Glesca Mileeshy able to rise to the noblest
heights. So, you see, there was enough of tradition to whet the
enthusiasm of the warlike Spud, and as he marched through the barrack
gates he swung out his pigeon chest, tightened up his shanks, and
swaggered across the parade in the style of a braw "Mileeshiman." The
sergeant marched him straight to where Sergeant-Major Fireworks was
standing.
"Halt!" the sergeant commanded.
Then addressing the sergeant-major, said, "Private Spud Tamson from
Glasgow, sir."
"Umph! You're a beauty. What are you--a burglar or wife-beater, eh?"
"Naw, I'm Spud Tamson, rag merchant, frae Glesca."
"Say 'sir' when you speak to me. And keep your legs to attention. You're
a soldier now! Don't scowl at me; I'll have no dumb insolence from you,
understand! And remember, you belong to the Glesca Mileeshy, the right
of the line and the terror of the whole world."
"I ken a' aboot that. Ma uncle wis in it."
"What was his name?"
"Rab M'Ginty."
"M'Ginty! Why, that was the d---- rascal who sneaked my trousers and
stole a barrel of beer."
"Ay, that's him. He's got an' awfu' thirst. I think he's got a sponge in
his thrapple."
"Very well. You'll go to 'A' Company. March him off, sergeant." And away
went Spud to join the leading company of his regiment.
He was introduced to a barrack-room where twenty men lived under the
rule of a red-nosed corporal nicknamed "Beery Bob." The walls of this
room were whitewashed and decorated here and there with photos of boxers
and ballet girls in tights. Along each side of the room were the little
iron beds with rolled-up mattresses and blankets neatly folded. A single
shelf contained each man's belongings, while at the end of the room
there was a cupboard to hold the rough bread, greasy margarine, and
chipped iron bowls and plates. To the sensitive eye the place just
looked like a prison, but the average Militiaman regarded it as a
palace, for he hailed from a brute creation who only know squalor and
misery. Indeed, it was frequently argued that to house these men in a
more artistic sphere would be stupid, for the simple reason that they
would wipe their feet with the tablecloths and use the saucers for the
boot blacking. In any case, it was life under the crudest conditions. On
a pay-day it was simply Hell.
Dinner was being served as Spud entered. This consisted of a
greasy-looking stew, coupled with queer-looking potatoes. The old
soldiers, of course, made sure of receiving the biggest share. This was
an unwritten law, handed down from the Army of the Romans, and it was
_infra dig_. for the recruit to object. Imagine the surprise of the
hungry Spud Tamson on sitting down to a bone and a couple of potatoes.
It was too much for his fiery nature, and, on observing the plate of an
old Die-hard next to him, which was loaded up with the choicest titbits,
he remarked to him, "You're like Rab Haw--you've eyes bigger than your
belly."
"Nane o' yer lip, or I'll knock your pimpled face intae mincemeat."
"Wid ye! D'ye think I'm saft?"
"Shut up, I tell ye."
"Tha'll no' frichten me, auld cock--I'm gem."
"Tak' that," said his opponent, wiping his hand across his face. Spud
promptly hit back, with the result that the table went up with a bang
and all the dinners crashed to the floor.
"Mak' a ring! Mak' a ring!" shouted the others, for Militiamen dearly
love a scrap. In a few seconds this was done. Spud and his enemy off
with their jackets, and soon the thud, thud, of blows, and an occasional
grunt told of a deadly combat. If Spud was lean, he was wiry, and he had
been reared in the school of self-help. He hopped round the old Die-hard
like a bantam, and now and then slipped in a terrific blow on the
elderly man's corporation.
"Go on the wee yin!"
"Two to one bar one!"
"Slip it across him!"
"Whack his beer barrel!" were some of the rude but encouraging remarks.
But all the pluck of Spud was useless against the great hulking form of
"Dirty Dick," as his opponent was called. After a ten-minutes' bout Dick
gave out a terrible snipe which sent the brave Spud to the floor and
caused the blood to spurt from his nose in a regular stream.
That was the end of the combat. Willing hands tended the unconscious
Spud, and on his recovery they hailed him as a fit and proper person for
the Glesca Mileeshy. Dick, in a true sportsmanlike manner, shook hands
and marched the whole crowd to the canteen. There the health of the
gallant recruit was pledged with Highland honours, followed by the
"Regimental" Anthem of the Glesca Mileeshy--
"Beer, beer, glorious beer,
Fill yourself right up to here;
Don't make a fool of it,
But down with a pail of it,
Glorious, glorious beer."
This episode was duly reported to Tamson senior. That worthy rag-vender
was well pleased--so pleased, in fact, that he got fu' on the strength
of it, and received a hammering from Mrs Tamson, who cracked the
frying-pan over his head. In the Gallowgate, the Murder Close Brigade
also hailed the news with pride. Spud was "one of the boys," and they
determined to give him a public reception in a fried-fish shop when he
returned.
Meantime Spud was being initiated into the arts of the soldier. From the
stores he had received a pair of wide, ill-fitting tartan breeks,
resembling concertinas, a red jacket, which hung like a sack, a white
belt, and a leatherbound Glengarry cap. A penny swagger cane and the
inevitable "fag" completed the picture of Spud as a warrior bold. He
also received a rifle and equipment. The rifle was an ancient affair,
officially known as a "D.P." (Drill Purposes). A certain number of good
rifles were allowed to each company for firing purposes. This
arrangement, perhaps, saved the lives of many in the Depot of Blacktoon,
for the Glesca Mileeshy at large resembled the Dervishes of the Khalifa.
Before dealing with the drilling of Spud on the barrack square I must
not forget to record his first ragging affair. This, as in the case of
every recruit, occurred on the first night in the barrack-room. It is
known as "setting the bed." As each bed is a collapsible affair, kept
together by movable bolts and stays, it is quite an easy matter to
abstract a few, leaving sufficient to allow the practical jokers to
carry out their scheme. On the night in question Spud, of course, was
quite unconscious of any trouble to come. When "Lights out" sounded he
hopped into bed and soon was fast asleep. His snoring was the signal for
the mischievous rascals to crawl out of their beds. Dirty Dick was one.
He fastened long strings to the legs of the sleeping man's bed. To the
ends of his blankets strings were also attached. During these operations
a "ghost" was getting ready by draping a white sheet over his body and
tipping his fingers and eyes with phosphorus. A sergeant's sword was
also given a touch of gleaming phosphorus. This completed, all scuttled
back to their beds and waited for the signal.
"Go," shouted the leader. The strings were tugged, away went the legs,
off went the blankets, and with a horrible crash Spud's bed collapsed
like a pack of cards on to the floor. His dreams were rudely shattered,
and he found himself standing in his shirt-tail 'midst the wreckage,
muttering some unparliamentary thoughts. The stillness and darkness of
the barrack-room made the affair uncanny. He had just commenced to
wonder whether his brain was sound when he was again startled to see a
ghost advancing down the room, loudly exclaiming, "Spud Tamson, I am the
Ghost of Jack the Ripper. I have come to slit thy gizzard with a sword,
so prepare to pass into the land where the angels sell ice-cream and all
drinks are free." This eerie person also waved his blazing-sword and
hands in such a terrifying way that poor Spud shivered with a strange
and awful fear. He thought he was in something like Dante's Inferno.
Nearer, nearer came the "Ghost," waving his awful sword. Was he to die?
Would he never see his dearly beloved Gallowgate again? And oh, what of
his Mary Ann, that romantic Glasgow creature who held his heart in the
hollow of her hand? Something had to be done.
Just then he caught the suppressed laughter of his fellows. His fears
vanished with the wind. He knew he was being ragged. Again he would show
his pluck. Picking up an iron leg of his bed, he waited for the "Ghost"
to come quite near.
"Spud Tamson, bare thy black and unwashed neck--I have come to slit it
like a butcher cutting a pig----"
Bang! went Spud's iron stanchion. It struck the sword, then Spud gave
the "Ghost" a terrific blow below the belt. He howled, then flew at his
aggressor like a tiger. In a second the still barrack-room was turned
into a boxing-booth. The unseemly noise was so bad that it roused the
corporal, "Beery Bob," out of his usual heavy sleep. Well used to these
affairs, the corporal, seizing a big stick, jumped out of his bed. Crack
went the stick over the nether region of the "Ghost," who at once
galloped to bed. Crack went the stick again over Spud's poor meatless
form. There was a yell, and Tamson exclaimed, "It wisna me, corporal! It
wisna me!"
"Naw, but that wis me. Get tae bed and nae mair o' yer yelpin'," he
said, turning in, while the remainder of the Militiamen were laughing
underneath the blankets. Poor Spud, realising that he was amongst the
Philistines, immediately camped for the night midst the wreckage of his
dreams.