‘And what shall you do in Australia?’ asked Will Brown.
‘I hardly know, but you may be sure I shall not remain idle very long. There ought to be plenty for an active young fellow like me to do out there.’
‘They are great cricketers, the Australians,’ said Brown. ‘You’re sure to get into one of the best elevens, and that will help you along.’
‘And give me a chance of a trip home perhaps,’ said Edgar. ‘I should hardly like playing against England.’
‘I expect you will become such an enthusiastic colonist that you will be only too eager to assist in lowering the flag of old England on the cricket-field.’
‘We shall see,’ replied Edgar. ‘Of one thing you may be quite sure: I shall look upon Australia as my home if I have to earn my living there.’
Robert Foster was heartily glad to welcome his son’s schoolmate at Elm Lodge. He was a believer in schoolboy friendships when judiciously made.
Elm Lodge was not a large place, but it was old-fashioned and picturesque, and overlooked the Thames near Twickenham. Robert Foster, in addition to being a great cricketer, was a skilful oarsman, and many a Thames waterman had found it a hard task to row with him. He was also an enthusiastic fisherman, and knew the favourite haunts of the famous Thames trout, and where many a good jack was to be found. There was a boathouse at Elm Lodge, and Edgar always anticipated a good time on the great river.
Doris Foster was a bright, merry girl of seventeen, a perfect picture of ruddy health, her cheeks untouched by any artificial beautifier. Nature was her lady’s-maid, and Doris Foster would not have changed her for the most skilful of tire-women. It was a difficult matter to keep Doris Foster indoors, no matter how bad the weather might be. She revelled in sunshine, but she loved the keen, sharp, frosty air of winter, and the sound of the frozen snow crunching beneath her tiny feet. She knew the names of the wild-flowers, and was well acquainted with their haunts, and also their habits. She was not a clever girl, but she was thoroughly domesticated, a far more desirable accomplishment. Her father and brother were her best friends, and she made but few new acquaintances. Doris Foster was a true-born English girl, not a forced artificial production such as may be encountered by the score in the Row, or the fashionable thoroughfares of the West End. She had not learned to talk slang, and to consider it correct to endeavour to make people think, ‘What a pity she is not a man!’
With the enthusiasm of a schoolboy, Will Brown adored Doris Foster. There was no maudlin, sentimental love nonsense about his adoration. It was the pure affection and liking a healthy youth feels for a healthy girl.