"Here you are," he sang out, passing it to Yard; "have a shot at goal!"
The convict caught the leather, and somehow or other the once-familiar feel of it restored his waning spirits. Taking a couple of short steps, he sent it soaring away towards the goal, a beautiful drop-kick that only fell short of the crossbar by a couple of inches.
"Bravo!" shouted Jack, gazing after it admiringly. "What do you think of that, Colonel?"
"Too damned good altogether!" grunted the old soldier. "I shall take my boys back to barracks if he does it again."
There was a general laugh, cut short by a sharp whistle from the referee.
The two sides lined up. As far as looks went they seemed fairly equally matched, the superior weight and strength of the soldiers in the scrum being pretty well counterbalanced by the youth and speedy appearance of the Okestock three-quarters and halves.
From the solitary glory of his position at fullback, Mr. Yard cast a critical eye over his opponents. A tall, fair-haired man who was playing on the right wing seemed especially to rivet his attention.
"Who's that chap?" he asked Tubby, as the latter fell back in preparation for the kick-off.
"Private Buckle," answered the latter, glancing in the direction he indicated. "You'll have to look out for him; he's about their best man."
The full-back smiled unpleasantly.