Before noon a few drops of rain fell, and with the gathering clouds the faces of the people became sombre, and their looks gloomy. A heavy shower would make a good deal of difference, and none knew it better than the members of the teams.
Robert Foster stood inside the pavilion, with his son and Will Murch, anxiously scanning the clouds for a sign of a break. They had not long to wait. The blue sky became visible, and the sun chased the dulness away and shed its brilliant rays on the scene.
And what a sight it was as they looked from the pavilion over the ground! A dense mass of people lined the enclosure, and even pressed over the boundary line in some parts of the ground. To the left of the pavilion the enclosure was gay with the costumes of the ladies, and they seemed as eager for the game to commence as any of the male sex.
Doris Foster accompanied Muriel Wylde and her mother, and they were escorted by Will Brown and Ben Brody, who felt slightly uncomfortable in a hard hat and a pair of gloves—not to mention a new suit, made by a fashionable tailor. They occupied seats in the first enclosure, and had an excellent view of the ground.
The mere mention of Lord’s conjures up wonderful feats in the cricket field, and recalls memories of men who played on its green sward. A glance round the pavilion shows the members have not been unmindful of their doughty champions of the game. It gives the history of cricket, its rise and progress, in a pictorial form, to look at the various prints, paintings, and engravings hanging on the walls. The ‘tall hat’ period is well represented, and young cricketers may well be forgiven for smiling at the costumes of the men who made the game what it is. The smile, however, was not at the men—there was nothing but praise for them. Old stagers waxed eloquent over the doings of the cricketers of their younger days. They vowed there were as good men then as now, although they had to confess the game had improved—and consequently the players also.
A gray-headed veteran came up to Robert Foster and said:
‘We had big crowds in our day, but nothing like this,’ and he waved his hand in a comprehensive sweep round the circle of faces.
Edgar was introduced to the veteran, who said:
‘I remember the first time I saw your father play. He was about your age then, and he was a bat. I’ll never forget it. It was on this very ground—Surrey against Middlesex. He won the match, my boy. I’d sooner you were for us than against us to-day, if you can play as well as your father did then.’
‘I recollect that match,’ said Robert; ‘but you give me too much credit when you say I won it for the team.’