"Bravo!" shouted Jack, gazing after it admiringly. "What do you think of that, Colonel?" "Too damned good altogether!" grunted the old soldier. "I shall take my boys back to barracks if he does it again." There was a general laugh, cut short by a sharp whistle from the referee. The two sides lined up. As far as looks went they seemed fairly equally matched, the superior weight and strength of the soldiers in the scrum being pretty well counterbalanced by the youth and speedy appearance of the Okestock three-quarters and halves. From the solitary glory of his position at fullback, Mr. Yard cast a critical eye over his opponents. A tall, fair-haired man who was playing on the right wing seemed especially to rivet his attention. "Who's that chap?" he asked Tubby, as the latter fell back in preparation for the kick-off. "Private Buckle," answered the latter, glancing in the direction he indicated. "You'll have to look out for him; he's about their best man." The full-back smiled unpleasantly. "I'll look out for him all right," he answered. For eighteen months Mr. Yard had been under the immediate charge of a warder of the same name, whose striking resemblance to the tall three-quarter proclaimed their relationship beyond doubt. Mr. Yard spat on his hands. "I only hope they're twins," he said to himself. Another sharp whistle, a general movement forward amongst the line of stalwart soldiers, and the ball came soaring through the air straight into Tubby's hands. The game had started. For the first ten minutes the play remained more or less confined to the centre of the ground. The Okestock forwards, settling down quicker than their adversaries, were more than holding their own in the scrum, and only the very keen tackling of the soldier three-quarters prevented Tubby and his companions from coming away with the ball. At last the former got his chance. Taking a swift pass from the half, he cut right through the opposition line, and dashed off down the field, with only the back between himself and the goal. As the latter leaped at him, he transferred the ball neatly to Jack, who was racing along a yard and a half to his left. Catching it in his stride, that genial young man swerved round the disgruntled soldier, and, galloping over the line, placed it fair and square between the goal-posts. Picking it up again, he leisurely retraced his steps. Some twenty yards out he halted, and beckoned to Mr. Yard. "Will you take the kick, Logan?" he shouted. Mr. Yard modestly shook his head. "Oh, but you must!" protested three or four of the others. "We've all heard about your goal-kicking." The whole field was waiting, and, seeing that there was no help for it, Mr. Yard strode reluctantly forward. "Where would you like it?" inquired Jack. "Oh, any old place!" answered the unhappy convict. "This'll do."