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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.

‘It’s my turn,’ said Bully Rakes. ‘Just you drop that bat, or I’ll make you.’