"Well, you'll come and play for us again, won't you?"
"I'd like to," said Mr. Yard, "if I can get away."
He clambered into the brake with the soldiers, and waved a parting farewell to his late colleagues, who set up a ringing cheer as the big vehicle slowly rumbled off.
"Good set of lads," said the Colonel.
Mr. Yard, thoughtfully fingering the money in his pocket, nodded his head.
The eight-mile drive into Plymouth was not without its anxieties. At every turn in the road Mr. Yard half expected to find a mounted warder holding up his hand to stop the horses. No such untimely incident, however, marred the harmony of the day, and just as the clocks were striking half-past one the brake was clattering through the ill-paved, straggling streets of Devonport.
At the junction of Dockyard Road and Broadway, Mr. Yard's eyes detected a second-hand clothes shop of particularly disreputable aspect. He waited until they reached the next corner, and then, turning to the Colonel, remarked casually: "This'll do all right for me; I want to get some 'baccy."
"Right you are," said the Colonel, giving the order to stop. "You know where the bridge is—first to the left, then straight on."
Mr. Yard nodded, and climbed out. "Thank ye for the lift," he said.
"Not at all," answered the Colonel. "Delighted! The Battery will always be proud to think that they had the honour of playing against you and scoring a try—eh, men?"