Very quietly the long reeds that hedged the Okestock football field were parted aside, and a face peered cautiously through, taking a long and careful survey of the immediate neighbourhood. The face belonged to Mr. William Yard, known to his more intimate friends in London as "Pills," and to the police as one of the most daring and successful burglars of the day.
A reason for Mr. Yard's prudence was not hard to find: the briefest glance at his khaki-coloured clothes, plentifully dotted with broad-arrows, made it quite evident that for the time, at all events, any form of publicity would be painful to him.
The fact was that on the previous afternoon Mr. Yard had accomplished the remarkable feat of escaping from Dartmoor. An unexpected mist sweeping down over the granite-studded hillside when he was at work had suddenly inspired him with the idea of making a dash for liberty. Without further thought he had flung down his spade and bolted into its shelter, before either of the nearest warders had been able to stop him. It is true that a couple of charges of buckshot had whistled by, unpleasantly close to his legs, but they had only served to add to his already useful turn of speed. By the time the other convicts had been collected, and the mist had lifted sufficiently for the warders to see what they were doing, Mr. Yard was some two miles away in the opposite direction from which he had started, safely hidden in a small plantation that fringed the main road to Okestock.
Here he had stayed until nightfall, expecting any minute to be routed out by a party of pursuing warders. No one had turned up, however, his ingenious idea of throwing a circle while the mist still concealed him having apparently put them temporarily off the scent.
Under cover of darkness he had stolen from his hiding-place, and, following the main road at a judicious distance, tramped doggedly on mile after mile, until the lights of Okestock some hundred feet below him had shown him that he had reached the boundaries of the moor.
Utterly dead beat, he had felt tempted to throw himself down on the open heather and snatch a few hours' rest. But the dread of discovery had urged him on, and, clambering cautiously down the hillside, he had made his way along the deserted road until he had reached the wire fence which bounded the Okestock football ground. Here a stray gleam of moonlight coming out between the clouds had shown him the patch of long, reedy grass behind the goal-posts. With a last effort he had crept into its shelter, and dropped almost instantly into a profound sleep.
It was the sun which had woke him up eventually, a bright yellow winter sun shining down out of a sky of cloudless blue. For a moment Mr. Yard had rubbed his eyes and stared at it with amazement; then with a sudden shock he had remembered he was no longer a guest of the Government. He had tried to scramble up, but his numbed limbs had refused to support him, and with a groan he had fallen back again, feeling rather like a trapped rabbit waiting the arrival of the keeper.
A few minutes' energetic rubbing, however, had been sufficient to restore both his circulation and his confidence, and it was then that he had pulled aside the reeds and peered out in the discreet manner already described.
The first thing that met his eyes was the football pavilion, a small wooden building on the left of the ground. Instantly the possibilities of a change of clothes jumped into his mind.
"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!"
For a second he hesitated, and then returning to the spot where he had dressed, picked up his late garments and stuffed them into one of the lockers and shut the lid.
Having done this he sat down and waited events.
"I've got the key, Tubby!" called out the same aggressively jovial voice.
"Right-oh!" responded the other. "D'you know this bally window's open?"
There was a grating in the lock.
"That's that old ass Smith again!" said the cheerful voice. "I told him to shut it."
Mr. Yard rose to his feet. If he had to be captured he would at least enjoy the memory of one really magnificent scrap. There was a sharp click, a bump, and then the door swung open.
"Hallo!" exclaimed the young man with the bag.
"Hallo!" returned Mr. Yard coolly.
The newcomer stared at him for a moment in amazement, and then, with a sudden smile, put down his bag and advanced towards him.
"Mr. Logan, I suppose," he said. "This is awfully good of you. I'd just made up my mind we should have to play one short."
He put out his hand, which Mr. Yard grasped and shook heartily.
At that moment the other young man entered.
"This is Logan, Tubby!" exclaimed the first. "He's turned up, after all."
"Good man!" exclaimed Tubby. "But how the dickens did you get in?"
"Through the window," explained Mr. Yard truthfully.
"That's the style," laughed the other. "Jack, why weren't you here to receive your guests? I suppose you came over in Sam's cart?"
Mr. Yard, who was trying desperately hard to get his bearings, contented himself with a nod.
"Well, I'm most awfly obliged to you for turning up," said Jack. "Old Morton had heard you were at Rundlestone, and suggested my sending you a wire first thing this morning, when Collins cried off. I never thought you'd be able to come."
"It was just chance," admitted Mr. Yard frankly. "I got away unexpected."
"We're jolly glad to see you, anyhow," broke in Tubby. "The Battery are sending over a beastly hot team, and we should have been absolutely snookered without a back."
Mr. Yard suppressed a start. In more innocent days, before the stern career of burglary had claimed him for its own, he had figured as a fullback of some local renown for a famous Yorkshire club. And now apparently it was in the same capacity that he was being so hospitably received by these two unsuspicious young men. Who the missing Logan might be he could only guess. Evidently some well-known player who was staying in the district, and had been invited over to assist Okestock at the eleventh hour. "If he turns up," thought Mr. Yard, "things'll be a bit hot."
His reflections were broken in upon by Jack.
"These morning matches are the deuce, you know, Logan. Half our fellows are in business, and it's a rare job to get a team together."
"One can't always get off when one wants to," said Mr. Yard sympathetically; "I've found that meself."
"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.
"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."
He viciously dug out a hole with his heel. Jack, carefully poising the ball in his hands, stretched himself out full length, and a painful moment of silence prevailed over the field.
Mr. Yard retired two or three steps.
"Down!" he cried hoarsely; and then, running forward, hacked at the ball with amazing ferocity. Up it flew high over the crossbar, and, describing a graceful curve in the air, settled down in the next field.
There was a wild outburst of applause from the delighted Okestock team; and Mr. Yard, mopping his forehead with his sleeve, retired to his former position.
"If I hadn't have said to myself it was a warder's head," he muttered, "I'd never have done it."
The game was resumed even more vigorously than before. Determined to draw level, the soldiers hurled themselves into their task with unsparing energy and their extra weight and strength in the scrum began to tell its tale.
On one occasion four stalwart privates broke right through the Okestock pack, and came thundering down the field with the ball at their feet. A score seemed certain, but Mr. Yard, whose arduous training as a burglar had taught him the value of strategy, saved the situation. Just as the quartette were drawing up to him, he suddenly rasped out in excellent imitation of a drill-sergeant the one magic word: "Halt!"
His opponents instinctively checked themselves, and, before they could recover, Mr. Yard had flung himself at the ball and with a flying kick sent it hurtling into touch.
He was surprised, and for a moment alarmed, at the indignation which his ingenious idea provoked among its immediate victims. All four of them were appealing angrily to the referee, who, speechless with laughter, could only shake his head and sign to them to proceed.
It was not until Mr. Yard realized that even the other members of the regimental team were hugely enjoying their companions' discomfiture that his fear lest he should have given himself away completely vanished.
"Git on with the game, ye fat'eads," roared the bully corporal who was skippering the team. Then, turning to Jack, he added admiringly: "'Ot stuff! That's what 'e is—'ot stuff!"
Jack, who was struggling between mirth and amazement, thought it wiser to say nothing. A moment later, however, finding himself alongside of Tubby, he whispered hurriedly:
"I say, that was a bit thick, wasn't it?"
Tubby grinned.
The soldiers' revenge was not long in coming. From the line-out one of them caught the ball, and flung it back to the tall, fair-haired three-quarter, who was standing unmarked. In a moment the latter had cut through and was galloping along the touch-line towards the Okestock goal.
With a grunt of joy, Mr. Yard came hurrying across, and leaped at his quarry like a tiger at a stag. In the splendour of his emotions, however, he committed the unpardonable error of going a shade too high.
The soldier's muscular hand shot out, and, catching his assailant fair and square under the chin, sent him spinning backwards on the grass. Then, amidst roars of delight from his companions, he ran round and deposited the ball half-way between the goal-posts.
Mr. Yard sat up and looked after him.
"You swine!" he said softly. "You wait!"
Jack and Tubby came hurrying up.
"Not hurt, Logan, are you?" inquired the former anxiously.
"Only in me feelings!" answered Mr. Yard.
Tubby laughed.
"Well, it's a new sensation for you to miss any one!" he said, as they walked back towards the goal. "I always thought Buckle was a pretty stiff proposition; now I'm sure."
Mr. Yard made no audible answer. To himself, however, he remarked bitterly: "He'll be stiffer still before I've done with him."
A successful place-kick put the two sides level, and immediately afterwards the whistle went for half-time.
When they resumed Mr. Yard had quite recovered from the effects of his tumble. He was standing in his place, luxuriously pondering over his next meeting with Private Buckle, when he suddenly observed a telegraph-boy opening the gate which led into the field.
Great minds work quickly. In a flash, Mr. Yard realized his danger. It was a hundred to one that the missing Logan had wired to explain his absence.
Casting a hasty glance at the game, which gave no sign of requiring his immediate services, he hurried down to the touch-line and held out his hand.
"For Mr. Mortimer, sir," said the lad.
"All right, my son," answered Mr. Yard pleasantly. "I'll give it him."
The boy handed over the yellow envelope, and then slowly began to retrace his steps, walking backwards and keeping a longing eye on the game. His own inclinations, fortunately for Mr. Yard, were at variance with the Government's views as to how long a telegraph-boy might take over a message, and, seeing that the full-back had had no opportunity as yet of passing on the wire, he at length vanished round the corner, unsuspicious as to its ultimate delivery.
It was not until he had completely disappeared that Mr. Yard opened the envelope.
"Sorry can't play to-day. Away last night; only just received letter.—LOGAN."
The convict barely had time to master the message when a sudden shout of "Look out, there!" recalled him abruptly to his environment.
The soldiers' three-quarters were in full movement; the ball travelling neatly up the line toward the right wing.
It finally came to rest in the hands of Private Buckle, who, avoiding the well-meant but somewhat belated attentions of Jack, came racing away down the touch-line.
Mr. Yard almost sobbed with pleasure.
He darted across the ground, timing his arrival to perfection. The three-quarter saw him coming, and, shifting the ball to his right arm, prepared to repeat his successful hand-off. But, like many other good intentions, his purpose was destined never to bear fruit.
Dropping his bullet head, Mr. Yard propelled himself through the air on the lines of a Whitehead torpedo, and with an appalling crash the two men hurtled to the ground and rolled over, locked in each other's arms.
"Gad, what a collar!" roared Jack, as the ball, after leaping high into the air, dropped safely into touch.
Mr. Yard was the first to rise. In that exquisite moment he seemed to have worked off all the bottled resentment of eighteen soul-searing months.
"Hope you're not hurt?" he grinned, extending a hand to the unfortunate Buckle, who lay on the ground gasping like a recently landed salmon.
The latter accepted it, and scrambled painfully to his feet.
"'Urt!" he stammered ironically. "Ho n-n-no, I ain't 'urt! I shouldn't a' known you'd c-c-collared me if you 'adn't mentioned it."
There was a general laugh, which the corporal capped by inquiring gravely:
"You don't 'appen to be wanting a job as a six-inch shell, I s'pose, Mr. Logan? We could do with a few more."
Mr. Yard shook his head.
"I've had enough o' working for the Government!" he remarked drily.
Only ten minutes more remained for play, and the fun became fast and furious. Both sides laid themselves out to score, magnificently indifferent to anything approaching defensive tactics. On one occasion Jack was hurled into touch when only a couple of feet from the soldiers' line, while, on another, nothing but an untimely stumble on the part of the big corporal prevented that gentleman from dribbling over and touching down.
It was left to Mr. Yard to put the crowning touch on the day's work. One minute from time the Battery's full-back picked up the ball in front of his own goal, and took a huge punt straight up the field. It dropped right into the hands of the convict, who was standing in a line with the centre flag.
The rushing forwards paused to give him five yards' law, and Mr. Yard gripped the occasion with commendable promptness.
Instead of kicking, he suddenly launched himself forward right into the thick of his waiting adversaries. In a moment he had bullocked his way through, his sudden run taking the opposition utterly by surprise.
There was a roar of "Collar him!" and from both sides the halves and three-quarters came thundering in to cut off his advance. Mr. Yard took in the situation at a glance. In a flash he had measured the distance between himself and the goal, and then, dropping the ball, sent it soaring away with a terrific kick straight for the bar.
There was a moment of painful silence. The ball pitched fair and square bang on the centre-piece, bounded up into the air, and then trickled gently over on the further side.
A howl of joy from the Okestock team, the referee whistled, and the game was over.
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.
"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?"
There was a general chorus of "Yes, sir," and a hearty salute which Mr. Yard gracefully returned.
Then the driver cracked his whip, and the brake rolled away, leaving Mr. Yard standing in the roadway.
It was three days later, when Jack, folding up the Western Morning News, tossed it across to Tubby.
"There you are," he said, "pictures and everything. We shall never hear the last of this as long as we live."
Tubby caught the paper, and, unfolding it, read out the heavily leaded headlines:
ASTOUNDING AUDACITY OF ESCAPED CONVICT.
THE NOTORIOUS BILL YARD PLAYS
FOOTBALL FOR OKESTOCK
FULL STORY AND INTERVIEWS
He skimmed quickly through the three columns of description, and then, with a grin, dropped the paper on the floor.
"We do look a pretty tidy lot of idiots," he admitted. "I wonder where he is?"
Jack shrugged his shoulders. "So do the police. They've no idea what happened to him after he got the clothes. He's simply vanished—disappeared, and my ten shillings with him." Then he paused. "I only wish it had been a quid," he added.
"Mine was," said Tubby softly.