To Mr. Yard's eyes, however, they were more welcome and attractive than the flowers in May. Stripping himself of his broad-arrowed costume with feverish rapidity, he hastily arrayed himself in the somewhat less conspicuous costume of a British footballer, minus the stockings and boots. A hurried search through the lockers revealed both these luxuries, with the aid of which he promptly proceeded to complete his outfit.
"Lor!" he chuckled, surveying himself with satisfaction in the broken bit of looking-glass that hung from the wall. "I never thought I should be wearin' footer kit again. It's like old days!"
There was no time for sentiment, however, and Mr. Yard was not slow in realizing the fact. Grabbing the greatcoat from its peg, he was just about to make for the window, when a sudden shout outside brought him to an abrupt halt.
"Hallo, Tubby!" sang out a cheery voice.
Like a cat Mr. Yard stole to the window. Some thirty yards away a young man with a bag in his hand was advancing towards the pavilion across the next field.
Swiftly and noiselessly the convict crossed the floor to the other side of the apartment, and peeped through a crack in the boards. Another young man with another bag in his hand was approaching from the roadway.
Mr. Yard swore, softly but fervently.
"Pipped!" he said; "pipped on the post!"
For a second he hesitated, and then returning to the spot where he had dressed, picked up his late garments and stuffed them into one of the lockers and shut the lid.
Having done this he sat down and waited events.