It finally came to rest in the hands of Private Buckle, who, avoiding the well-meant but somewhat belated attentions of Jack, came racing away down the touch-line.
Mr. Yard almost sobbed with pleasure.
He darted across the ground, timing his arrival to perfection. The three-quarter saw him coming, and, shifting the ball to his right arm, prepared to repeat his successful hand-off. But, like many other good intentions, his purpose was destined never to bear fruit.
Dropping his bullet head, Mr. Yard propelled himself through the air on the lines of a Whitehead torpedo, and with an appalling crash the two men hurtled to the ground and rolled over, locked in each other's arms.
"Gad, what a collar!" roared Jack, as the ball, after leaping high into the air, dropped safely into touch.
Mr. Yard was the first to rise. In that exquisite moment he seemed to have worked off all the bottled resentment of eighteen soul-searing months.
"Hope you're not hurt?" he grinned, extending a hand to the unfortunate Buckle, who lay on the ground gasping like a recently landed salmon.
The latter accepted it, and scrambled painfully to his feet.
"'Urt!" he stammered ironically. "Ho n-n-no, I ain't 'urt! I shouldn't a' known you'd c-c-collared me if you 'adn't mentioned it."
There was a general laugh, which the corporal capped by inquiring gravely: