"I'll look out for him all right," he answered.
For eighteen months Mr. Yard had been under the immediate charge of a warder of the same name, whose striking resemblance to the tall three-quarter proclaimed their relationship beyond doubt.
Mr. Yard spat on his hands.
"I only hope they're twins," he said to himself.
Another sharp whistle, a general movement forward amongst the line of stalwart soldiers, and the ball came soaring through the air straight into Tubby's hands. The game had started.
For the first ten minutes the play remained more or less confined to the centre of the ground. The Okestock forwards, settling down quicker than their adversaries, were more than holding their own in the scrum, and only the very keen tackling of the soldier three-quarters prevented Tubby and his companions from coming away with the ball.
At last the former got his chance. Taking a swift pass from the half, he cut right through the opposition line, and dashed off down the field, with only the back between himself and the goal. As the latter leaped at him, he transferred the ball neatly to Jack, who was racing along a yard and a half to his left. Catching it in his stride, that genial young man swerved round the disgruntled soldier, and, galloping over the line, placed it fair and square between the goal-posts.
Picking it up again, he leisurely retraced his steps. Some twenty yards out he halted, and beckoned to Mr. Yard.
"Will you take the kick, Logan?" he shouted.
Mr. Yard modestly shook his head.