‘I admire your pluck, but I hardly think you will do that,’ was the remark of a friend of Mr. Foster’s.
They did not do it. The Australians made an unfortunate start, for Murch, their great bat and popular captain, was caught before he had scored.
Edgar made a fair show, and put on thirty runs before he was bowled; but none of the team made a good stand, and the innings closed, for a hundred and fifty runs—two hundred and fifty-two behind their opponents. This was a terribly black outlook for the Australians, and everyone was disappointed at their display.
Muriel Wylde felt vexed, and she knew Edgar would be much cut up about it. He came to see her, and tried to put the best face he could on the matter.
‘We must avoid a one innings defeat, anyhow,’ he said; ‘I cannot make it out at all. It is sheer bad luck, for the wicket was good. I think when Murch got out for a duck it made our fellows feel a bit nervous.’
‘You played well enough,’ said Brody.
‘That you did,’ said Will Brown; ‘but I’m afraid you are in for an awful dressing.’
‘No telling what may happen in cricket,’ said Edgar. ‘I have seen an even worse match than this pulled out of the fire.’
‘Then you have not lost hope?’ said Muriel.
‘By no means,’ said Edgar. ‘I have a presentiment we shall make a big score, and prove what we really can do.’