"There's bound to be some clobber kicking about in there," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if I can get in without bein' nabbed?" That, as Hamlet would have said, was the question. The public road, as he remembered from last night, ran right alongside the ground, and, to judge by the sun, the time was already past ten o'clock. Still, it was no good lying like a hunted rat among the reeds. It was a case of neck or nothing, and Mr. Yard was not the man to fail at a crisis. Licking his blue lips, he raised himself to a crouching position, and then, with a care which would have done credit to a boy scout, elevated his head above the top of the reeds. So far as he could see in each direction, the road was empty. Hesitating no longer, he crept out from his hiding-place, and, bending almost double, covered the distance between the goal and the pavilion in almost the same time that it takes to read these words. The door was in front, facing the yard; but Mr. Yard did not trouble about this recognized means of entrance. He hurried round to the back, where he found a small window just large enough to admit a man's body. It was shut, of course; but this was a trifling obstacle to a gentleman of his experience. In about half a minute he had forced it open, and, pulling himself up by the sill, scrambled through and dropped on to the floor. He found himself in a small matchboard apartment, set round with wooden lockers. There were also various pegs from which were suspended one or two mud-stained jerseys and sweaters, an old greatcoat, and a couple of pairs of blue football shorts, distinctly the worse for wear. To Mr. Yard's eyes, however, they were more welcome and attractive than the flowers in May. Stripping himself of his broad-arrowed costume with feverish rapidity, he hastily arrayed himself in the somewhat less conspicuous costume of a British footballer, minus the stockings and boots. A hurried search through the lockers revealed both these luxuries, with the aid of which he promptly proceeded to complete his outfit. "Lor!" he chuckled, surveying himself with satisfaction in the broken bit of looking-glass that hung from the wall. "I never thought I should be wearin' footer kit again. It's like old days!" There was no time for sentiment, however, and Mr. Yard was not slow in realizing the fact. Grabbing the greatcoat from its peg, he was just about to make for the window, when a sudden shout outside brought him to an abrupt halt. "Hallo, Tubby!" sang out a cheery voice. Like a cat Mr. Yard stole to the window. Some thirty yards away a young man with a bag in his hand was advancing towards the pavilion across the next field. Swiftly and noiselessly the convict crossed the floor to the other side of the apartment, and peeped through a crack in the boards. Another young man with another bag in his hand was approaching from the roadway. Mr. Yard swore, softly but fervently. "Pipped!" he said; "pipped on the post!"