THE GARRISON LIGHTWEIGHT.
_Spud_, having experienced the usual ragging affairs, was now a
full-fledged confidant of the older hands. And being of a mischievous
turn of mind, he seized every opportunity to play tricks on his
unsuspecting comrades. These ragging affairs were great or small
according to the mental and physical fitness of the unfortunates. A
powerful recruit was let down easily, for obvious reasons. A weakling or
"saftie" had "to go through the mill" in an unorthodox way. Beefy
M'Fadyen was of the latter kind. Like all of us, he had a pet delusion.
His was, that Nature had destined him for a bantam lightweight. As a
matter of fact, Beefy couldn't knock a herring off a plate. Still, that
did not prevent him from coddling his puny biceps and tackling all the
penny automatic punch-balls in the ice-cream shops of the garrison. He
devoured boxing literature by the yard, and would slide down the chimney
of the Sporting Club to get a free peep at the cracks of the noble art.
Naturally, this tickled the funny side of all, especially Spud, who
casually inquired of him one day if he could be his trainer.
"Of coorse," said Beefy.
"What d'ye usually train on?"
"Weel, I've had tae get fit on fish suppers, ice-cream, and woodbines."
"And have you boxed ony champions?"
"Oh ay--Wee Broon o' the Coocaddens, and Pud Webster o' the Gallowgate."
"But they're schule laddies. Hooever, that disnae maitter. I'll get ye
in training tae box Curly Broon, the ex-champion o' the Garrison."
"Richt ye are."
"But mind ye, Beefy," said Spud solemnly, "you've tae dae whut I tell
ye."
"Certainly."
"Noo, the first thing you've got tae dae is tae haund owre yer piy on
piy-days."
"Whut fur?"
"Tae get beef-steaks, kippers, an' four ale--that's the stuff tae get
yer muscles up."
This and other arrangements were duly completed. In the evening it was
publicly announced that Beefy was in training to fight the champion
named. The training was somewhat rigorous. After five gallops round the
barrack square, Spud applied a hose-pipe to the body of his man. Then
coarse towels were used, and now and again Beefy's limbs were scoured
with dripping and bath-brick. As he was a little weak in the joints, a
touch of blacking was painted round "tae keep oot the cauld." Minor
contests were got up in the meantime, and in all these it was arranged
to let Beefy have the knock-out blow. This whetted his ardour, and when
he was informed that a belt and thirty shillings was to be the prize at
the great contest, he became doubly keen.
One Wednesday afternoon, when the officers were having a lawn-tennis
party on the green, Spud called his man into the training quarters.
There he daubed the usual blacking on his knee and ankle joints, rubbed
ham fat on the remainder of his body; next dressed him up in a comic
harrier kit, decorated with a skull and cross-bones.
"Noo, Beefy, d'ye see yon green whaur the ladies an' officers are haein'
tea an' tennis?"
"Ay."
"Weel, ye've tae gallop roon' that twenty times wife-beating stoppin'."
"Richt ye are, Spud."
"Ready?"
"Ay."
"Go." Off went the poor, unsuspecting mortal. As soon as he started, a
hundred waiting heads popped out of the windows to see the fun. Meantime
Beefy had reached the green, and, true to his trust, commenced to gallop
round. The colonel's wife spotted him first. The awful apparition sent
her pale. Mrs M'Haddie, the Provost's wife, let out a shriek, but nearly
all the young ladies and subalterns burst into peals of laughter.
Colonel Corkleg, however, fumed and cursed like Marlborough's troops in
Flanders.
"Stop----"
"Who----"
"What----"
"Why----" shrieked the old commander, as he pursued Beefy round the
green.
Beefy, however, simply grinned in an inane manner and kept on. He was in
training for the garrison belt. That, to him, was a very serious affair,
and he did not intend to allow any interference--even from Colonel
Corkleg. But he had yet to reckon with the adjutant. That officer
ordered the bugler to sound the Fall in, at the same time letting loose
a couple of bulldogs. The result was that in three minutes half the
Glesca Mileeshy were in swift pursuit of the light-footed Beefy. He
dodged, then led them round the barrack square, to the secret delight of
Spud and his mischief-makers. Then came the end. With a deathlike gasp
he fell into the arms of Sergeant-Major Fireworks.
"What do you mean?" yelled this monument of army rations.
"I'm trainin'."
"Training?"
"Ay, trainin' for the garrison belt."
"Put him in the guardroom, corporal," roared the sergeant-major, and off
went poor Beefy to the cells.
Next morning the whole story came out at the orderly-room, and Beefy
M'Fadyen was awarded fourteen days Confined to Barracks.
This did not postpone the fight. Oh no. Beefy's delusion was a permanent
affair, and he would fight his rival by hook or by crook. Arrangements,
however, had to be made secretly. The key of the gymnasium was quietly
appropriated on the night of the tussle, and after dark the whole
regiment trooped in.
"Gentlemen," said Spud Tamson, "allow me to introduce Beefy M'Fadyen,
the Champion Bantam Weight o' the Glesca Mileeshy. He has been trained
on woodbines, fish suppers, ice-cream, haddies, an' Dublin stout, and
turns the scale at 9 st. 10 lb. He's a beauty. His muscles are like
corks, and his wind as soond as the wind in bellows--walk up."
Beefy entered the ring, shook hands with Curly Broon, then sparred. All
laughter was duly suppressed at a wink from Spud, for his man had to be
impressed with the seriousness of the business. Beefy commenced by
hopping round like a cat on a hot plate, delivering natty little blows
at his opponent's chest. Curly accepted all without any pretence of
defence. This roused the hopes of Beefy higher still, and of course he
was cheered to his task.
"Go on, Beefy."
"Give him a thick ear."
"Under the belt."
"That's it--slip it across him."
These were some of the remarks. To be brief, in the tenth round, he
delivered a severe blow under Curly's chin. With a well-feigned grunt
and a hopeless sigh, Curly collapsed like a pack of cards. There was a
rousing cheer, and Spud gladly held out his hand to the victor.
Producing a big leather belt made out of old straps and studded with
various cap and collar badges, Spud fixed this round the champion's
waist. Another member presented a tin medal neatly fixed on some old red
serge. Then all let out three lusty cheers.
"Noo, Beefy, you've got tae step intae the officers' mess for your
prize-money--jist as ye are. The colonel'll gie ye the money at the
table." Unsuspecting, Beefy glibly complied, while Spud and his friends
took post in the darkest corners to watch the affair.
The officers were having dinner at the time, in fact they had just
arrived at that part where the band plays the National Anthem, and the
subaltern of the day proposes the toast of--
"Gentlemen--The King!"
when in burst Beefy M'Fadyen all perspiring and somewhat bruised--a
perfect nightmare in his boxing attire. All the young officers burst out
laughing, but the colonel roared, "Silence, gentlemen!" Then, turning to
Beefy, he said--"How dare you enter the officers' mess? What do you
mean, sir?"
"I waant my prize-money."
"What money--you fool?"
"Ma thirty bob for knockin' oot Curly Broon."
"Who sent you here?"
"Spud Tamson."
"Well--get out."
"Nae fear--I waant ma thirty bob. You'll no frichten me," said Beefy,
sitting down on a chair.
"You--you--you--insubordinate scoundrel. How--how--dare you!" shouted
the old colonel, getting red at the neck.
"Keep your hair on, auld cock," said Beefy.
"Send for the guard, adjutant."
In a few minutes an escort appeared, and Beefy, the vaunted champion,
was seized and carried forcibly to the guardroom. All that was heard as
he was hustled away was, "I waant ma thirty bob."
Spud Tamson got fourteen days cells for this little trick, and poor
Beefy received a paper stating, "You are discharged from His Majesty's
Service as unlikely to become an efficient soldier."
"What dis that mean, Spud?" said Beefy, showing him the paper as he was
leaving.
"It jist means that _you're_ daft."
"Weel, Spud, I'm no' sae green as I'm cabbage-lookin'. Ta-ta." And this
was true, for next day nearly every man in the Glesca Mileeshy had lost
his spare shirts, socks, and boots.
"Jings, he's no' sae daft efter a'," was Spud's final comment on the
departed boxer.