Mr. Yard found himself surrounded by a throng of his fellow-players, each endeavouring to outvie the other in compliments and gratitude. With a sudden inspiration, he thrust his way through, and made a dash for the pavilion. It could not have been more than forty-five seconds before the foremost of his laughing pursuers ran in after him, but that priceless interval had not been wasted. In Mr. Yard's breeches-pocket reposed practically the entire stock of loose cash which had previously enriched the hanging line of waistcoats and trousers.
"I must be off!" he said hastily, picking up his adopted coat and cap.
"Oh, hang it all!" cried Jack. "I was going to suggest that you should come back and have some lunch with us."
Mr. Yard shook his head. The thought of food was a very fragrant one, but the money in his pocket clamoured for instant retreat.
"Can't," he said regretfully. "It's uncommon good of you, but I've got to get into Plymouth as quickly as possible."
"Plymouth!" exclaimed the Colonel, who had just come up. "If you want to go to Plymouth you'd better pack in with us. We can drop you at the Halfpenny Gate, and you can pick up a tram from there."
"Thanks!" said Mr. Yard gratefully. "That'll do me fine."
"Come along, then," said the Colonel; "we're off right away."
"Will you be on the moor next Saturday?" cried Jack, pressing forward with the others to shake the hand of their parting guest.
"It's quite possible," admitted Mr. Yard.