On one occasion four stalwart privates broke right through the Okestock pack, and came thundering down the field with the ball at their feet. A score seemed certain, but Mr. Yard, whose arduous training as a burglar had taught him the value of strategy, saved the situation. Just as the quartette were drawing up to him, he suddenly rasped out in excellent imitation of a drill-sergeant the one magic word: "Halt!"
His opponents instinctively checked themselves, and, before they could recover, Mr. Yard had flung himself at the ball and with a flying kick sent it hurtling into touch.
He was surprised, and for a moment alarmed, at the indignation which his ingenious idea provoked among its immediate victims. All four of them were appealing angrily to the referee, who, speechless with laughter, could only shake his head and sign to them to proceed.
It was not until Mr. Yard realized that even the other members of the regimental team were hugely enjoying their companions' discomfiture that his fear lest he should have given himself away completely vanished.
"Git on with the game, ye fat'eads," roared the bully corporal who was skippering the team. Then, turning to Jack, he added admiringly: "'Ot stuff! That's what 'e is—'ot stuff!"
Jack, who was struggling between mirth and amazement, thought it wiser to say nothing. A moment later, however, finding himself alongside of Tubby, he whispered hurriedly:
"I say, that was a bit thick, wasn't it?"
Tubby grinned.
The soldiers' revenge was not long in coming. From the line-out one of them caught the ball, and flung it back to the tall, fair-haired three-quarter, who was standing unmarked. In a moment the latter had cut through and was galloping along the touch-line towards the Okestock goal.
With a grunt of joy, Mr. Yard came hurrying across, and leaped at his quarry like a tiger at a stag. In the splendour of his emotions, however, he committed the unpardonable error of going a shade too high.