The head-master of Redbank was the Rev. Henry Hook, and it was universally acknowledged that no more suitable man could have been selected. He ruled his lads with a firm hand, but he was no tyrant or hard task-master. The boys knew he meant what he said, and that his word to them could be implicitly relied upon. He had confidence in his boys, and they returned it.
When Edgar Foster came to Redbank School he was sixteen, small for his age, but muscular and active. At this time there were between two and three hundred scholars at Redbank, and naturally out of such a number there were several lads whose absence would not have been regretted.
Young Edgar Foster soon became popular. For one thing, his father was a well-known man, who had worthily upheld the honour of Redbank in the cricket field, and had captained the All England eleven. This was quite sufficient to give Edgar a standing in the school.
Bullies exist in almost every walk of life, and a few of this undesirable species were to be found at Redbank. The leader of these bullies was a lad named Raymond Rakes—‘Bully Rakes’ as he was generally called. He was a big, hulking fellow, powerful and strong, but deficient in courage, as bullies generally are.
There was nothing manly about Bully Rakes, and the boys knew it. So far he had held his own, for he was the biggest boy in the school. Any new scholar he at once endeavoured to inspire with awe, and generally succeeded.
Our story commences about a week after Edgar Foster’s arrival at Redbank. The boys were bounding out of school and soon spread over the fields in groups; the bulk of them, however, went towards the cricketing nets.
Edgar Foster had not had any opportunity of showing what he could do with the bat. He was a lad who did not push himself forward, but quietly bided his time, knowing full well that when that time came he would not be found wanting. The boy is father to the man, and it will be gathered from this story of a lad of mettle that Edgar Foster acted in this wise during many trying periods of his after-life.
Edgar watched the practice with keen and critical eyes. His father had taught him how to handle a bat as only a skilful player can.
‘Here, Foster, take a turn,’ said the lad who had just finished batting. ‘We’ve not had the chance of seeing how you shape yet.’
‘I’m ready,’ said Edgar, pulling off his coat and eagerly holding out a hand for the bat.