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.’