'Aw, onything ye like, but for ony sake clay up! Shift!' cried the
distracted Macgregor.

'Weel gi'e's a fag . . . . an' a match,' said Willie.

He received them in his face, but merely grinned as he languidly
removed himself.

The two scrawls so hastily and under such difficulties produced by
Macgregor are sacred. He would never write anything more boyish
and loving, nor yet more manly and brave, than those 'few lines' to
his mother and sweetheart. There was no time left for posting them
when the order came to fall in, but he anticipated an opportunity
at one of the stations on the journey south.

Out in the sunshine stood the hundreds of lads whose training had
been so brief that some carried ammunition for the first time.
There were few grave faces, though possibly some of the many grins
were more reflected than original. Yet there was a fine general
air of eagerness, and at the word 'attention' the varied
expressions gave place to one of determination.

Boom! boom! boom! . . . Boom! boom! boom! Dirl and skirl; skirl
and dirl! So to the heart-lifting, hell-raising music of pipes and
drums they marched down to the railway.

At the station it seemed as though they had been expected to break
all records in military entraining. There was terrific haste and
occasional confusion, the latter at the loading of the vans. The