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. 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!"
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