"I shouldn't have taken them on," continued the other, stripping off his shirt, and groping in his bag for a jersey, "if it hadn't been that they're leaving Plymouth on Friday. The Colonel was very keen to have a cut at us first, as we haven't been beaten this year. The old beggar thought he'd catch us on the hop if he could fix up a mid-week match. He'll be awfully sick when he finds you're playing for us. I expect there are a lot of people after you when you're on a holiday, aren't there?" "Quite enough," confessed Mr. Yard. A sudden sound of laughter and voices outside became audible, and Tubby, walking to the door, flung it open. "Here are the others!" he said. Some seven or eight young fellows, most of them already changed, came straggling across the field. When they saw Tubby at the door they raised a cheerful "Coo-ee!" "The Campbells are coming!" called out one. The words had hardly left his lips when a big brake, packed with men, rumbled along the road and drew up at the entrance to the ground. As the soldiers were disembarking themselves, Mr. Yard was being introduced to the new arrivals on his own side. On every hand he was greeted with the warmest of welcomes. "I saw you play a couple of years ago for Devon," said one youngster admiringly. "My word, you were in form! Hadn't you a moustache then, by the way?" Mr. Yard nodded. "I had it shaved off last year," he said. By this time the slightly mistaken impression as to his identity had become public property, and the visitors, who had all arrived in their footer kit, were standing about viewing him with mingled expressions of curiosity and respect. The Colonel, who had brought the Battery over, a jolly-looking, fat old man with a white moustache, came up and introduced himself. "Glad to have the chance of seeing you play, Mr. Logan," he said, "but it's a low-down trick of young Mortimer here roping you in. We weren't expecting to run up against an International fullback." "You'll run up against him all right," interrupted Jack, with a laugh. "That's what he's here for." Mr. Yard, who was beginning to get a little nervous about his growing reputation, smiled uneasily. He had not played for at least five years, and although, thanks to the healthy limitations of Dartmoor, he was in excellent condition, he could not help feeling grave doubts as to whether he would be able to live up to Mr. Logan's formidable fame. However, there was nothing to do now but to go through with it. Tubby, fully changed, came running out from the pavilion with a ball, followed by several other members of the team. "Here you are," he sang out, passing it to Yard; "have a shot at goal!" The convict caught the leather, and somehow or other the once-familiar feel of it restored his waning spirits. Taking a couple of short steps, he sent it soaring away towards the goal, a beautiful drop-kick that only fell short of the crossbar by a couple of inches.