Читать книгу A Lad of Mettle - Nat Gould - Страница 5

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As Edgar Foster walked to the wickets he felt much depended upon him. He was going in first, taking first over, and if he failed to play with confidence it would set a bad example to the remainder of the team. It was, however, at such moments as these that Edgar Foster’s courage and spirit did not fail him.

As he took his position at the wicket he looked round him with a confident air to see how the field was placed. He saw Harold Simpson had so placed his men that not a chance would be thrown away, provided the bowlers were in good form. After a few moments’ delay Edgar handled his bat confidently, and prepared to receive the first ball of the over.

A lad named Winter was bowling, and Edgar knew he was a promising youngster. The first ball pitched short and then shot forward at a tremendous pace. It was a ball that might have deceived any batsman, and Edgar had only just time to change his mind and block it. The escape was narrow, and the boys saw it, but they knew the ball was well played, and cheered.

‘Thought it had him,’ said Robert Foster to one of the Redbank masters.

‘It would have been a stroke of bad luck for us if he had gone out,’ was the reply.

Off the next ball Edgar scored a couple, and the fourth ball of the over he skied on to the pavilion.

‘That first ball put him on his mettle,’ thought his father.

Strange to say, in the next over Edgar’s partner was dismissed first ball in a similar manner to that in which the Fairfield batsman was out.

Will Brown was next in, and he and Edgar made things lively. They fairly collared the bowling, and gave the Fairfield team plenty of leather-hunting. Fours came freely, and Harold Simpson began to look rather downcast. However, when Will Brown was bowled with the score at eighty, the Fairfield captain brightened up again. He knew how often a collapse followed a long stand, and how ‘glorious’ was the uncertainty of cricket.

Will Brown’s partnership with Edgar had put the Redbank boys into an excellent humour, and they were prepared to cheer every hit. What they were not prepared for happened. This was the collapse of the next four batsmen. Three of them were bowled in one over, and the fourth had his bails sent flying when he had scored two. Eighty for two wickets, and eighty-two for six wickets altered the game completely.

It was now the turn of the Fairfield boys to give vent to their delight. The prospect of defeat had not been pleasant, but this sudden change mended the fortunes of their side, and they were wild with the sudden revulsion of feeling. They chaffed the Redbank lads unmercifully, until at one time there was danger of a fistic war.

This was, however, happily averted by the appearance of Raymond Rakes, who was cheered as he went to the wickets. Although Rakes was unpopular, the boys knew he was a fair bat, and they wished to encourage him to make a stand with Edgar Foster.

As Rakes came to the wickets Edgar went forward to meet him.

‘Play steady,’ said Edgar; ‘I feel I am well set. If you play carefully for a few overs you will soon master the bowling. Remember how much depends upon you. We shall have to win the match between us.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Rakes. ‘It’s precious bad luck four of our best bats going out like this.’

‘Don’t think of that,’ said Edgar. ‘Try and make up for it by piling up a good score.’

Raymond Rakes followed Edgar’s advice, and soon found he had very little difficulty in playing the bowling. He knew how anxious Edgar was, not only to win the match, but to make fifty because his father was present.

‘I’m well set,’ thought Rakes. ‘I’d like to get him out. It would cut him up terribly to be run out. Even if he got out we have a chance. I can make a fair score, and our tail-end is not a bad one.’

Still harbouring such thoughts as these Raymond Rakes batted steadily, and Edgar was immensely pleased to see him scoring freely, and the Redbank boys were cheering every stroke. They watched the scoring-board intently, and grew more and more excited with every run. Suddenly there was a loud cry of dismay from the boys. Some shouted ‘Run, Rakes!’ others ‘Go back, Foster!’

Edgar Foster hit a ball forward, and called to Rakes to run. Had Rakes come at once it would have been an easy but smart run. Rakes started late, and then when Edgar Foster was three parts of the way down the pitch shouted to him to go back, and ran back himself. This left Edgar in a most unenviable position. The ball was smartly fielded, and as Edgar ran back he saw it flash past him straight for the wicket-keeper.

‘I’m done,’ thought Edgar, but he ran on as fast as possible.

It was a critical moment. The wicket-keeper in some unaccountable way fumbled the ball, and only knocked the bails off as Edgar reached the crease.

‘How’s that?’ came from wicket-keeper, bowler, and fielders in a general chorus.

They were anxious to see Edgar out, for he had given them a lot of trouble, and seemed likely to give more.

‘Not out!’ promptly came the decision of the umpire, and a roar of applause echoed over the field as the Redbank lads danced with delight, and flung their caps high into the air because their captain had another chance given him. Edgar knew the decision of the umpire was correct, and he thanked his lucky star that the wicket-keeper had fumbled the ball. When he thought of Raymond Rakes he felt inclined to give him a bit of his mind, but he determined to treat the matter as a pure accident until the close of the game. As for Raymond Rakes he was savage at the non-success of his plan. He had deliberately tried to run Edgar out. It was a dirty trick, and he knew it, but he was bitterly disappointed that it had not been successful.

‘Hang the fellow! he seems to have all the luck,’ thought Raymond. ‘I wonder if he suspects anything?’

The idea of Edgar Foster suspecting he had acted in such a manner made Rakes feel uneasy, for he had not forgotten the punishment Edgar gave him when he first came to the school. He did not bat with such confidence, and Edgar put this down to its proper cause. Runs came freely again, for Edgar felt the result of the match depended almost entirely upon himself. When his score reached fifty the cheering broke out again, and made Rakes turn green with envy.

‘He shall have a new bat for that,’ said Robert Foster. ‘By Jove! he deserves it. He’s batting splendidly. I’m glad that big hulking fellow did not run him out.’

Before the score reached a hundred Rakes was caught. He was not very warmly greeted as he returned to the pavilion. The boys knew how matters stood between him and Edgar, and they had a shrewd suspicion Bully Rakes had tried to get Edgar run out.

Rakes flung his bat down in a corner of the dressing-room and took off his pads.

‘You didn’t manage to run him out,’ said Will Brown.

‘Who wanted to run him out?’ said Rakes angrily; ‘I didn’t. It was his own fault. There was no run, and I didn’t want to get out through his foolishness.’

‘You’d better tell him that when the match is over,’ said Will Brown. ‘He’ll probably want an explanation. If he believes you, well and good; if not—oh my, won’t you just catch it!’

Bully Rakes took up a pad and hurled it at his tormentor.

‘Get out of this, you little beast!’ he said. ‘You know I can’t touch you here, or you’d not be so cheeky.’

‘Mind and keep clear of Edgar’s left if it comes to war,’ said Will Brown. ‘I fancy you know he’s a good fist at the end of his left arm.’

Bully Rakes jumped to his feet and made towards the speaker; but Will Brown was too quick for him, and shot out at the side door.

Meanwhile the game was at a critical stage. Edgar Foster was playing at his best. He did not give a chance, nor did he throw away an opportunity of stealing a run. He knew that every run was of vast importance. A run lost might mean the match lost. Sayers junior was in with him, and blocked steadily while his captain made the runs. The fielders were on the alert, and were smart and active, and many a run was saved. Harold Simpson was a good general, and handled his men well.

‘It does one good to watch a game like this,’ said Robert Foster to Dr. Hook. ‘I have seldom seen lads field better, and Edgar is batting really well. Who is the little chap keeping his end up so well?’

‘Sayers junior,’ said Dr. Hook. ‘He’s helping your son famously.’

‘Playing a most unselfish game,’ said Robert Foster. ‘That is how matches are won. A selfish player at any game is a big handicap on his side.’

A burst of cheering from lusty throats stopped the conversation. It was caused by Edgar Foster hitting a ball over the pavilion—a mighty stroke for a lad.

‘Well hit!’ ‘Bravo, Foster!’ ‘Three cheers for our skipper!’ And the Redbank lads shouted until they were hoarse.

The match was, however, not yet won. Sayers junior played a ball on to his wicket when ten runs remained to be got to tie and eleven to win.

‘I am afraid we shall lose,’ said Dr. Hook, as the ninth man was clean bowled and the last of the team went in.

‘Can he bat at all?’ asked Robert Foster anxiously.

‘He is uncertain, but at times he shapes well,’ said one of the masters.

‘Then I hope it is his day for shaping well,’ said Edgar’s father.

‘Block them, Bull,’ said Edgar, as the lad came to the wicket.

‘I’ll do my level best,’ said Bull, ‘and I don’t feel a bit nervous.’

‘That’s right,’ said Edgar. ‘Then, between us we must win the match.’

Fortunately Edgar was batting, and he hit the first ball sent him after Bull came in for a single. It was fielded smartly, thrown in swiftly, the wicket-keeper could not quite reach it, and there was another run for an overthrow. This gave Edgar another chance before the over was finished, and he promptly took advantage of it, hitting the next ball round to leg for three. The excitement was intense. Would Bull be able to keep his wicket up during this over? The Redbank boys vowed they would make Bull a presentation if he managed to do so. It was a surprise to them when Bull fluked a ball past point, and another run followed. Edgar determined to finish the game if possible, and a couple of runs were got by a somewhat lucky stroke. This left three runs to win, and the boys of both schools were in a fever of excitement.

‘If Edgar can only manage to hit a three,’ said Will Brown, ‘then we shall be all right. He’s done wonders, considering everything.’

The next ball Edgar could do nothing with. It puzzled him, and nearly got past his bat.

Then came a comparatively easy ball, and Edgar lifted it over the ropes, amidst a perfect hurricane of cheers. This hit won the match, and the Redbank boys rushed wildly over the ground and, surrounding Edgar, bore him shoulder-high to the pavilion. It was a scene seldom witnessed even on this famous school-ground, and as Edgar’s father looked on he felt the moisture well up into his eyes, and his heart beat with pride. He knew what this moment of triumph would mean to his son, and he gloried in it. He made his way to the dressing-room, and as he came the boys stood on one side and cheered him again and again. They were proud of the father and proud of the son, and were not slow to show it.

‘Splendidly done, my lad!’ said Robert Foster, as he placed his hand on Edgar’s shoulder. ‘It was a plucky, uphill fight, and your schoolfellows are enthusiastic about it. I never saw you play a steadier or better game.’

‘It was hard work,’ said Edgar, ‘but I did not feel a bit nervous. We have won, but it was a narrow shave. I think it ought to have been an easier victory had Rakes done his best.’

‘Then, you think Rakes behaved badly? I should give a boy like that a wide berth.’

‘We are not friends,’ said Edgar, ‘but I bear him no animosity.’

The Redbank boys could do nothing but talk over their victory, and Edgar Foster found they gave most of the credit to himself.

Edgar gave Rakes to understand he believed he had tried to run him out.

‘I may be wrong, but that is my opinion,’ said Edgar.

‘Your opinion is worth nothing to me,’ said Rakes, ‘so you may keep it to yourself.’

‘That may be,’ replied Edgar; ‘but the honour of the school ought to be worth something to you. I shall not ask you to play again during the time I am captain of the eleven.’