“Your name is Davidson, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, Alfred Davidson.”
“Well, Davidson, stick to your work and be a good boy. My old college friend is vicar of Darlton, and knows your mother well, so I shall feel an extra interest in you, and he can tell your mother, when I write to him, how you get on with your work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now run on and join your fellow-choristers. As you are early, you will have a quarter of an hour for play before work.”
Alfred raised his cap and ran away to catch his new friends, Walter and Stephen. They met Herbert King and three other boys, who joined them, and walked up to a large open space near the cathedral, where they played cricket and football. It was a very pretty place. There were several large trees, and close by ran the river, on which some of the boys used to row, as the father of one of the choristers owned boats, and let them out.
“Can you play football, Davidson?” asked King.
“No—that is, not much,” replied Alfred.
“He will be on our side,” exclaimed Walter. “He will soon learn.”
The game began. It was near the end of March, so they had not yet commenced cricket, as the weather had been too wet and cold. Alfred was put among the forwards, and being a very quick runner, succeeded in shooting a goal for his side.