Lessons were over for the day, and the boys at Redbank School came running with shouts and whoops of joy into the playing-fields. They were like young colts freed from restraint for a few hours, and eager to make the most of their liberty.
Redbank was the home of brilliant cricketers and all-round athletes. Many a noted cricketer had received his first lessons in the great game on Redbank cricket ground. The lads were proud of the men who played in the All England eleven, and who were never slow to acknowledge that to Redbank they owed what prowess they possessed.
The Redbank lads were born runners, so many an old hand training them for races vowed. Something in the atmosphere of Redbank seemed to make the lads athletic. Perhaps the traditions attached to the school had much to do with this, for lads are very proud, and justly so, of the feats of scholars who have preceded them.
But Redbank was not merely a training ground for famous athletes. Redbank scholars had taken high honours at the Universities, and afterwards distinguished themselves in various walks of life. The Bishop of Flaxham was proud of the fact that he was ‘grounded’ at Redbank. He was an eloquent and distinguished man, an ornament to the Church, and a brilliant writer of readable books.
When the Bishop of Flaxham came to Redbank, and preached in the chapel, the lads with difficulty restrained themselves from giving him a hearty cheer at the end of his address. The Bishop knew how to talk to boys, and never forgot that at one period of his life he had been bored with wearisome sermons about the world, the flesh, and the devil, which he did not in the least understand. So he took warning, and told the lads to run the race set before them much in the same manner as they would a hundred yards sprint, each striving to win the prize and do the distance in even time. The Bishop believed that well-trained muscles and a healthy body were conducive to an active and moral state of mind. The Redbank lads gloried in the fact that the Bishop of Flaxham had been one of themselves.
Field-Marshal Lord Kingcraft was a Redbank boy, and his warlike deeds and bravery were celebrated in song on the fly-leaves of school-books, and occasionally on the panels of doors and the insides of desks.
‘Lord Kingcraft’s won the great V.C.,
May Redbank do the same for me.’
was discovered carved, evidently with much labour and pains, on the lid of a desk at which the celebrated Field-Marshal formerly worried his brains over Euclid and algebra.
This inscription was pointed out to the brave leader of men when he visited his old school, and he never forgot it. He hoped, from the bottom of his heart, the lad who carved it would one day win his V.C.
Redbank was represented in the navy and in the diplomatic world, and one day it was hoped a Redbank lad would become Prime Minister.
So, with all these successful public men constantly before them as an example, the lads of Redbank felt bound to endeavour to do great deeds, and win renown for themselves and their school.
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.
‘It’s my turn,’ said Bully Rakes. ‘Just you drop that bat, or I’ll make you.’
Edgar Foster looked up at the big fellow standing before him, but he did not flinch, nor did he drop the bat.
The boys crowded round, anticipating a row, and anxious to see how the new-comer would shape with Rakes.
‘If it is your turn,’ said Edgar quietly, ‘I will give you the bat. If it is not your turn, under no circumstances will I drop the bat.’
The tones were firm, there was no flinching, and the lad looked determined.
Bully Rakes was not accustomed to be addressed in this manner. He eyed Edgar scornfully, and said:
‘I shall have to teach you manners. I am the best judge of whose turn it is. Will you drop that bat?’
Edgar turned to the lad who had handed him the bat, and said:
‘Do you bat in turns? Has Rakes any right to bat before me?’
Courage is infectious. Will Brown had never defied Rakes before, but he felt he must back up his plucky schoolmate.
‘Rakes has no right to bat here at all,’ he replied. ‘He’s been batting at the other net, and has just finished his turn.’
Edgar Foster made no further remark, but walked coolly to the wicket.
This defiance of his demands gave Bully Rakes a shock. He knew if he allowed Foster to bat his hold over the boys would be gone. He strode up to Edgar and said savagely:
‘Give me the bat, or I’ll thrash you!’
‘Had you asked me politely at first, I should probably have handed you the bat,’ said Edgar. ‘I shall not do so now. As for thrashing me—well, that has to be decided.’
‘Bravo, Foster!’ shouted several lads.
‘Punch his head, Rakes,’ said one of the bully’s toadies.
‘Give me that bat, or fight me!’ shouted Rakes in a passion.
‘Shame!’ shouted the lads.
Rakes was much taller and more powerfully built than Edgar.
Edgar Foster handed the bat to Will Brown, and said:
‘Come on, I’m ready.’
Bully Rakes had his coat off, and the boys, seeing a fight about to take place, formed a ring. They would have given much to see Bully Rakes get a severe thrashing.
Now they were in a fighting attitude the disparity between the lads was more apparent. Edgar was lightly built, but active, and evidently in good condition. Bully Rakes was massive, heavy, and ponderous in his movements. The boys were determined to see fair play, and gave Edgar every encouragement. As usual, when he had to fight, Bully Rakes rushed in at close quarters, and tried to overwhelm his smaller opponent by the force of his onslaught.
Edgar, however, was ready for him. He knew how to box better than most lads of his age. His father had taught him, impressing upon him that because he knew how to use his fists he ought not to pick quarrels.
Seeing Bully Rakes rush at him, Edgar sprang nimbly to one side. The bigger lad stumbled forward and almost fell. Thus foiled at the first attempt, Rakes lost his temper. He heard the lads jeering at him, and he determined he would make Edgar suffer for the humiliation.
Recovering himself, Rakes glared at Edgar and then aimed a terrific blow at his ribs. Quick as lightning shot out Edgar’s left and caught Rakes on the ear. It was a stinging blow, and the bully did not take punishment well. Rakes again rushed at Edgar, and, closing with him, kicked him severely on the shin. It was a despicable act, and several lads pulled Rakes back, others shouting ‘Coward!’ and ‘Foul play!’
‘Hands off!’ shouted Rakes. ‘You’d better not interfere with me.’
‘Leave him to Foster,’ said Will Brown; ‘he’ll settle him.’
A roar of laughter followed this remark, and made Bully Rakes furious.
‘Stand up and fight fair,’ said Edgar. ‘Who taught you to kick? We’re not playing football.’
The boys were delighted. Here was young Foster taking it out of Bully Rakes, and chaffing him unmercifully.
Rakes again commenced the attack, but with more caution. He was not a match for his young opponent when it came to science. He managed to land a blow on Edgar’s right eye, but the return he received fairly between his own eyes staggered him. Edgar followed up his advantage and soon had the satisfaction of seeing Bully Rakes measure his length on the grass.
The younger boys danced with delight as the defeat of their enemy looked assured.
Rakes, however, was not yet beaten. He staggered to his feet and fought again with some determination. Feeling he had met his match, his courage, what little he possessed, gave way, and Edgar soon had the bully at his mercy. Edgar was not disposed to let him off lightly, and he knocked Rakes about in a manner that both astonished and alarmed him.
‘Have you had enough?’ said Edgar, standing over him after another knock-down blow. ‘If not, get up, and I’ll repeat the dose.’
‘I’ve done for to-day,’ growled Rakes; ‘but I’ll be even with you for this, see if I don’t.’
‘Take your defeat like a man,’ said Edgar, ‘and drop bullying in the future. Where’s the bat?’ he added, turning to Will Brown.
But the boys would not let him bat. They cheered him and shook hands with him, and Edgar felt he had quickly made a position for himself in the school.
Bully Rakes slunk away with one or two companions, who had been tempted by his example to bully on a smaller scale, and were downcast at his defeat.
‘You’ll get into a row,’ said Will Brown to Edgar. ‘The chief can’t bear fighting, but when he hears the truth, I fancy he’ll side with you.’
‘He’ll hear the truth then,’ said Edgar. ‘I shall ask to see him when we reach school.’
‘I shouldn’t,’ said Will Brown. ‘None of the masters may have noticed it.’
‘It makes no difference to me whether they have noticed it or otherwise,’ said Edgar; ‘I shall tell the doctor all about it, if he will see me. It is the most straightforward way, as I have only been about a week in the school.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Will Brown.
‘Sure of it,’ said Edgar.
That evening Dr. Hook received a polite note from Edgar Foster, in which he asked for an interview. Dr. Hook knew Edgar’s father, and admired him for his many manly qualities.
‘You wanted to see me, Foster,’ said Dr. Hook, when the lad came into his study.
Then, catching sight of Edgar’s discoloured eye, he frowned.
Edgar explained what had occurred in the cricket-field. Dr. Hook listened attentively, noting the boy’s face all the time. His scrutiny was evidently favourable.
‘I am glad you came to me,’ said the head-master; ‘I strongly object to fighting, but in this instance I think it may be overlooked. Send Rakes to me when you go out.’
‘Please, sir,’ said Edgar, and hesitated. ‘I hope you will not punish Rakes; I gave it him severely this afternoon.’
Dr. Hook smiled as he said:
‘No, I will not punish Rakes; I merely wish to speak to him about his conduct. You may go.’
‘That lad will get on in the world,’ thought Dr. Hook, when the door closed behind Edgar. ‘I’m glad he thrashed Rakes; it will do him good.’
Bully Rakes got a very different reception to Edgar Foster, and as he left the room he vowed he would have his revenge upon Edgar for ‘sneaking’ to the head-master.
The thrashing of Bully Rakes gave Edgar Foster a hold over the affections of his schoolfellows, and he never lost it. In twelve months he became captain of the eleven, and led them to victory on many occasions. Edgar worked hard, both at lessons and play. He found it much easier to study when his body was in good order, and his athletic exercises helped to make his school tasks the easier. He could not be called a brilliant scholar by any means, but he was endowed with an amount of perseverance that generally pulled him through.
‘It’s got to be done, and I’ll do it,’ Edgar thought to himself when pondering over a difficult task, and he generally succeeded.
The Redbank lads took a defeat from their great opponents, the eleven of Fairfield College, with a very bad grace. Not that they allowed their successful opponents to see their chagrin, they were too manly for that, but they felt the defeat keenly.
Edgar Foster determined to win the return match if possible. He had taken great care to select his eleven, and felt confident of success. He was the more eager to win because his father was coming to Redbank to watch the game. Dr. Hook too was anxious his boys should regain their lost laurels, and he encouraged Edgar by his kindly advice.
It so happened that Raymond Rakes, despite his many bad qualities, was a very fair cricketer. He had not been chosen to play in the first match against Fairfield, and he put his being left out of the team down to Edgar’s animosity.
Edgar Foster, however, was not actuated by any such motive. He thought Rakes hardly good enough, and therefore did not select him. Since this match Rakes had shown such good form that Edgar decided to include him in the eleven for the return match.
Bully Rakes was much surprised when Edgar asked him to play. He said he would think over the matter, and complained about not being chosen in the first match.
‘You had not shown good enough form then,’ said Edgar; ‘you have come on wonderfully since, and therefore I ask you to play. It is for the honour of the school we are playing this time, so you ought to have no hesitation.’
‘Then I’ll play,’ said Rakes, in his usual surly manner.
‘And I hope you will make a good score,’ said Edgar.
As the captain of the Redbank eleven walked away, Rakes looked after him with no friendly eyes. He had never forgotten the humiliating defeat he sustained when Edgar first came to the school. No opportunity had yet occurred of paying off the grudge he owed Edgar on that account.
‘He’s set his heart on winning this match,’ muttered Rakes to himself; ‘he’d have left me out again if he could. I’ve a good mind to spoil his plans. What does it matter whether we win or lose the match? I don’t care much which way it goes, and I’d like to see Foster taken down a peg or two. I’ll wait and see how our side shapes. I may be able to carry out a plan of my own.’
Had Edgar Foster doubted Rakes, he would not have asked him to play; but he could not understand any lad throwing away a chance of victory merely to spite the captain of the team. Such conduct Edgar would not have suspected even in Raymond Rakes.
‘So you’ve asked Rakes to play?’ said Will Brown, who had become a stanch friend of Edgar’s ever since the fight with Bully Rakes.
‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘He’s not a bad bat at all; he’s a fair field, and will do to put on for a change bowler. We must win the match. I’m awfully anxious about it. My father will be here, and there’s sure to be a big crowd of people. We have a good team, and I’m pretty confident this time.’
‘All the same, I should not have played Rakes,’ said Will Brown.
‘Why?’ asked Edgar.
‘Because I don’t trust him. He’s never forgiven you for licking him, and if he gets half a chance he’ll throw us over in the match, just to spite you,’ said Will.
Edgar looked at his schoolmate in surprise. He could not believe in any lad doing such a thing.
‘He’ll never do that,’ said Edgar. ‘Even if it is as you say, and he still bears me a grudge, he would never be such a cad as to throw the school over in order to annoy me.’
‘I hope he won’t, for your sake,’ said Will; ‘but all the same, I have my doubts.’
Will Brown’s words made Edgar feel uneasy for a time, but he soon forgot them. It was universally agreed that a better eleven could not have been chosen to meet Fairfield College. Masters were not to play; it was to be purely a boys’ match.
Early and late Edgar was at the cricket nets watching the practice and debating how he should send his team in to bat. For such a young lad, he had keen powers of observation, and he made a pretty accurate calculation as to the pluck and nerve of each boy. Edgar’s father arrived the day before the match, and saw the final practice.
‘You have a real good team,’ he said to his son, ‘and ought to win. Remember, a good deal depends upon the captain.’
‘I’m not likely to forget that,’ said Edgar. ‘You have often told me a good captain wins many a game at cricket.’
Robert Foster was proud of his son, and naturally felt anxious to see him successful.
‘How’s my lad doing?’ he had said to the head-master.
‘Well—very well,’ said Dr. Hook. ‘He is not a brilliant scholar, but he will get on in the world. He is like his father in one respect. He is about the best cricketer and all-round athlete we have in the school.’
Robert Foster’s eyes brightened, and he said:
‘I’m glad of that. I’m not a rich man, and my lad will have to fight his own battles. He has a great inclination to go abroad, and I don’t know that it will not be a good thing for him. His sister will be able to keep me from feeling lonely.’
Dr. Hook looked at Robert Foster with his kindly eyes, and replied:
‘Travel expands the mind. If a lad has plenty of ballast, he will take no harm in any part of the world. Your son is a lad of mettle, and you need have no fear about his future. If I am a judge of character, I should say Edgar Foster is a lad who will surmount difficulties and dangers, and he is bound to be a leader of men.’
Robert Foster was proud of the way in which the head-master spoke of his son. How little do thoughtless schoolboys know the pleasure a father feels in hearing praise bestowed upon his child, or of the pang he feels when the son he loves strays from the right path. Robert Foster loved his son devotedly, although he made very little demonstration of his affection, and Edgar thoroughly understood and appreciated the manly qualities of his father.
The eventful day arrived, and a glorious day it was. The sun shone brightly, and there was a slight cool breeze. Redbank cricket ground was charmingly situated. The pavilion was small, but there were several large trees growing at the back which afforded ample shade. The ground was level and well-kept, and the pitch had much care bestowed upon it. It was a great day at Redbank when this return match with Fairfield College was to be played. Flushed with the triumph of their previous victory, the Fairfield lads were eager for the fray, and had invited many friends to come and witness their further triumph. The captain of the Fairfield eleven, Harold Simpson, was almost as popular at Fairfield as Edgar Foster was at Redbank. The two captains had a mutual liking for each other, although each one was determined to beat the other in the great game they were about to play.
Edgar Foster lost the toss, and, as the ground was in such good order, Harold Simpson elected to send his men in first.
‘They are a strong batting team,’ said Edgar to his father. ‘It will take us some time to get rid of them.’
‘It is a one-day match, so you must do your level best to get them out quickly,’ said his father.
As the boys filed on to the field they were cheered by their comrades and the Redbank supporters, who had mustered in strong force.
Edgar Foster came in for a special share of applause, and he felt his pulses tingle and his heart beat high with hope as he bounded over the springy turf towards the wickets.
The two Fairfield batsmen were wildly cheered by their mates, and Harold Simpson decided on this occasion to go in first.
Will Brown and Sayers junior were put on to bowl.
An anxious moment is that during which the first ball in a match is delivered. The bowler goes back from the wicket, measuring his men; for a second or two he hesitates and looks round, then he glances at the batsman, sees all is ready, and prepares for the delivery. As he takes his run to the wicket the spectators hold their breath. Will this first ball be fatal? A sigh of relief goes round as the batsman plays it well forward.
Harold Simpson failed to score in Brown’s first over. Sayers junior then took the ball, and his first delivery made the bails fly, much to the delight of the Redbank boys, who shouted and cheered vociferously.
Edgar Foster felt they had commenced well, and was anxious for the good-fortune to continue. The Fairfield boys were determined bats, and a long stand took place before the second batsman was got rid of.
Harold Simpson still kept his wicket up, and runs came freely. At the fall of the fifth wicket Fairfield had put a hundred runs on, of which the captain had made forty.
Edgar Foster went on to bowl. He was not such a good bowler as Rakes, who thought he ought to have been tried before, and looked sullen.
In his first over Harold Simpson skied a ball to Raymond Rakes. It was an easy catch, but Rakes missed it, and so clumsily that the boys jeered at him.
Will Brown, who had been watching him, thought:
‘He dropped that on purpose, because Edgar bowled it.’
Nothing daunted at this stroke of bad luck, Edgar sent another similar ball down. Harold Simpson hesitated for a moment as to what he should do with it; then he struck out, and, strange to say, the ball went to Rakes again.
It was not such an easy catch as the former one, but, still, there ought to have been very little difficulty in a good fielder securing it. Rakes fumbled it badly, and again missed the catch.
Edgar Foster could not help thinking of what Will Brown had said to him. He was very much annoyed, and at the conclusion of his over said to Rakes:
‘Those were two easy catches to miss; they may cost us the match.’
‘They were not as easy as they looked,’ said Rakes. ‘You don’t suppose I dropped them on purpose, do you?’
‘I should be very sorry to think that,’ said Edgar; ‘but be more careful next time.’
At last Will Brown secured Harold Simpson’s wicket, and the others followed rapidly, the innings closing for a hundred and thirty-four, a good score in a one-day school match.
‘What do you think of it, Edgar?’ asked his father. ‘Shall you be able to wipe that off?’
‘I think so,’ replied Edgar. ‘We should have had a much easier task had Rakes held those two catches off my bowling.’
‘He made an awful mess of them,’ said Robert Foster. ‘How he dropped the first puzzles me; he had it fairly in his hands.’
‘Look here, Edgar!’ said Will Brown. ‘It’s no use mincing matters. I’m sure Rakes missed those catches purposely. When are you going to send him in?’
‘About seventh,’ said Edgar.
‘Put him in last,’ said Will.
‘That would only make matters worse,’ said Edgar; ‘he would know I doubted him, and act accordingly. He shall go in sixth wicket down. It will give him a chance of making up for missing those catches.’
‘As you wish,’ said Will. ‘Mind, if you are in with him, he does not run you out.’
‘No fear of that,’ said Edgar, laughing.
And he crossed over to speak to Raymond Rakes.
‘You go in sixth wicket down,’ he said.
‘All right,’ replied Rakes, ‘that will suit me.’
‘We’ve not been very good friends,’ said Edgar, ‘but you know it is not my fault. We want to win this match, and it may be that your batting will turn the scale in our favour at a critical point of the game. I shall rely upon you to do your best for the honour of the school. You missed two very easy catches; try and make up for it by playing your best when you go in to bat.’
‘I always do,’ said Rakes sulkily, and walked away.
Edgar Foster felt rather sorry he had included Raymond Rakes in the Redbank eleven.
As Edgar Foster walked to the wickets he felt much depended upon him. He was going in first, taking first over, and if he failed to play with confidence it would set a bad example to the remainder of the team. It was, however, at such moments as these that Edgar Foster’s courage and spirit did not fail him.
As he took his position at the wicket he looked round him with a confident air to see how the field was placed. He saw Harold Simpson had so placed his men that not a chance would be thrown away, provided the bowlers were in good form. After a few moments’ delay Edgar handled his bat confidently, and prepared to receive the first ball of the over.
A lad named Winter was bowling, and Edgar knew he was a promising youngster. The first ball pitched short and then shot forward at a tremendous pace. It was a ball that might have deceived any batsman, and Edgar had only just time to change his mind and block it. The escape was narrow, and the boys saw it, but they knew the ball was well played, and cheered.
‘Thought it had him,’ said Robert Foster to one of the Redbank masters.
‘It would have been a stroke of bad luck for us if he had gone out,’ was the reply.
Off the next ball Edgar scored a couple, and the fourth ball of the over he skied on to the pavilion.
‘That first ball put him on his mettle,’ thought his father.
Strange to say, in the next over Edgar’s partner was dismissed first ball in a similar manner to that in which the Fairfield batsman was out.
Will Brown was next in, and he and Edgar made things lively. They fairly collared the bowling, and gave the Fairfield team plenty of leather-hunting. Fours came freely, and Harold Simpson began to look rather downcast. However, when Will Brown was bowled with the score at eighty, the Fairfield captain brightened up again. He knew how often a collapse followed a long stand, and how ‘glorious’ was the uncertainty of cricket.
Will Brown’s partnership with Edgar had put the Redbank boys into an excellent humour, and they were prepared to cheer every hit. What they were not prepared for happened. This was the collapse of the next four batsmen. Three of them were bowled in one over, and the fourth had his bails sent flying when he had scored two. Eighty for two wickets, and eighty-two for six wickets altered the game completely.
It was now the turn of the Fairfield boys to give vent to their delight. The prospect of defeat had not been pleasant, but this sudden change mended the fortunes of their side, and they were wild with the sudden revulsion of feeling. They chaffed the Redbank lads unmercifully, until at one time there was danger of a fistic war.
This was, however, happily averted by the appearance of Raymond Rakes, who was cheered as he went to the wickets. Although Rakes was unpopular, the boys knew he was a fair bat, and they wished to encourage him to make a stand with Edgar Foster.
As Rakes came to the wickets Edgar went forward to meet him.
‘Play steady,’ said Edgar; ‘I feel I am well set. If you play carefully for a few overs you will soon master the bowling. Remember how much depends upon you. We shall have to win the match between us.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Rakes. ‘It’s precious bad luck four of our best bats going out like this.’
‘Don’t think of that,’ said Edgar. ‘Try and make up for it by piling up a good score.’
Raymond Rakes followed Edgar’s advice, and soon found he had very little difficulty in playing the bowling. He knew how anxious Edgar was, not only to win the match, but to make fifty because his father was present.
‘I’m well set,’ thought Rakes. ‘I’d like to get him out. It would cut him up terribly to be run out. Even if he got out we have a chance. I can make a fair score, and our tail-end is not a bad one.’
Still harbouring such thoughts as these Raymond Rakes batted steadily, and Edgar was immensely pleased to see him scoring freely, and the Redbank boys were cheering every stroke. They watched the scoring-board intently, and grew more and more excited with every run. Suddenly there was a loud cry of dismay from the boys. Some shouted ‘Run, Rakes!’ others ‘Go back, Foster!’
Edgar Foster hit a ball forward, and called to Rakes to run. Had Rakes come at once it would have been an easy but smart run. Rakes started late, and then when Edgar Foster was three parts of the way down the pitch shouted to him to go back, and ran back himself. This left Edgar in a most unenviable position. The ball was smartly fielded, and as Edgar ran back he saw it flash past him straight for the wicket-keeper.
‘I’m done,’ thought Edgar, but he ran on as fast as possible.
It was a critical moment. The wicket-keeper in some unaccountable way fumbled the ball, and only knocked the bails off as Edgar reached the crease.
‘How’s that?’ came from wicket-keeper, bowler, and fielders in a general chorus.
They were anxious to see Edgar out, for he had given them a lot of trouble, and seemed likely to give more.
‘Not out!’ promptly came the decision of the umpire, and a roar of applause echoed over the field as the Redbank lads danced with delight, and flung their caps high into the air because their captain had another chance given him. Edgar knew the decision of the umpire was correct, and he thanked his lucky star that the wicket-keeper had fumbled the ball. When he thought of Raymond Rakes he felt inclined to give him a bit of his mind, but he determined to treat the matter as a pure accident until the close of the game. As for Raymond Rakes he was savage at the non-success of his plan. He had deliberately tried to run Edgar out. It was a dirty trick, and he knew it, but he was bitterly disappointed that it had not been successful.
‘Hang the fellow! he seems to have all the luck,’ thought Raymond. ‘I wonder if he suspects anything?’
The idea of Edgar Foster suspecting he had acted in such a manner made Rakes feel uneasy, for he had not forgotten the punishment Edgar gave him when he first came to the school. He did not bat with such confidence, and Edgar put this down to its proper cause. Runs came freely again, for Edgar felt the result of the match depended almost entirely upon himself. When his score reached fifty the cheering broke out again, and made Rakes turn green with envy.
‘He shall have a new bat for that,’ said Robert Foster. ‘By Jove! he deserves it. He’s batting splendidly. I’m glad that big hulking fellow did not run him out.’
Before the score reached a hundred Rakes was caught. He was not very warmly greeted as he returned to the pavilion. The boys knew how matters stood between him and Edgar, and they had a shrewd suspicion Bully Rakes had tried to get Edgar run out.
Rakes flung his bat down in a corner of the dressing-room and took off his pads.
‘You didn’t manage to run him out,’ said Will Brown.
‘Who wanted to run him out?’ said Rakes angrily; ‘I didn’t. It was his own fault. There was no run, and I didn’t want to get out through his foolishness.’
‘You’d better tell him that when the match is over,’ said Will Brown. ‘He’ll probably want an explanation. If he believes you, well and good; if not—oh my, won’t you just catch it!’
Bully Rakes took up a pad and hurled it at his tormentor.
‘Get out of this, you little beast!’ he said. ‘You know I can’t touch you here, or you’d not be so cheeky.’
‘Mind and keep clear of Edgar’s left if it comes to war,’ said Will Brown. ‘I fancy you know he’s a good fist at the end of his left arm.’
Bully Rakes jumped to his feet and made towards the speaker; but Will Brown was too quick for him, and shot out at the side door.
Meanwhile the game was at a critical stage. Edgar Foster was playing at his best. He did not give a chance, nor did he throw away an opportunity of stealing a run. He knew that every run was of vast importance. A run lost might mean the match lost. Sayers junior was in with him, and blocked steadily while his captain made the runs. The fielders were on the alert, and were smart and active, and many a run was saved. Harold Simpson was a good general, and handled his men well.
‘It does one good to watch a game like this,’ said Robert Foster to Dr. Hook. ‘I have seldom seen lads field better, and Edgar is batting really well. Who is the little chap keeping his end up so well?’
‘Sayers junior,’ said Dr. Hook. ‘He’s helping your son famously.’
‘Playing a most unselfish game,’ said Robert Foster. ‘That is how matches are won. A selfish player at any game is a big handicap on his side.’
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.’
Fortunately Edgar was batting, and he hit the first ball sent him after Bull came in for a single. It was fielded smartly, thrown in swiftly, the wicket-keeper could not quite reach it, and there was another run for an overthrow. This gave Edgar another chance before the over was finished, and he promptly took advantage of it, hitting the next ball round to leg for three. The excitement was intense. Would Bull be able to keep his wicket up during this over? The Redbank boys vowed they would make Bull a presentation if he managed to do so. It was a surprise to them when Bull fluked a ball past point, and another run followed. Edgar determined to finish the game if possible, and a couple of runs were got by a somewhat lucky stroke. This left three runs to win, and the boys of both schools were in a fever of excitement.
‘If Edgar can only manage to hit a three,’ said Will Brown, ‘then we shall be all right. He’s done wonders, considering everything.’
The next ball Edgar could do nothing with. It puzzled him, and nearly got past his bat.
Then came a comparatively easy ball, and Edgar lifted it over the ropes, amidst a perfect hurricane of cheers. This hit won the match, and the Redbank boys rushed wildly over the ground and, surrounding Edgar, bore him shoulder-high to the pavilion. It was a scene seldom witnessed even on this famous school-ground, and as Edgar’s father looked on he felt the moisture well up into his eyes, and his heart beat with pride. He knew what this moment of triumph would mean to his son, and he gloried in it. He made his way to the dressing-room, and as he came the boys stood on one side and cheered him again and again. They were proud of the father and proud of the son, and were not slow to show it.
‘Splendidly done, my lad!’ said Robert Foster, as he placed his hand on Edgar’s shoulder. ‘It was a plucky, uphill fight, and your schoolfellows are enthusiastic about it. I never saw you play a steadier or better game.’
‘It was hard work,’ said Edgar, ‘but I did not feel a bit nervous. We have won, but it was a narrow shave. I think it ought to have been an easier victory had Rakes done his best.’
‘Then, you think Rakes behaved badly? I should give a boy like that a wide berth.’
‘We are not friends,’ said Edgar, ‘but I bear him no animosity.’
The Redbank boys could do nothing but talk over their victory, and Edgar Foster found they gave most of the credit to himself.
Edgar gave Rakes to understand he believed he had tried to run him out.
‘I may be wrong, but that is my opinion,’ said Edgar.
‘Your opinion is worth nothing to me,’ said Rakes, ‘so you may keep it to yourself.’
‘That may be,’ replied Edgar; ‘but the honour of the school ought to be worth something to you. I shall not ask you to play again during the time I am captain of the eleven.’
The time arrived, all too soon, when Edgar Foster was to leave Redbank. Unlike many lads, he was not eager to have done with lessons, and take his place in the busy world. During his stay at Redbank he had made many friends, Will Brown being an especial favourite with him. Dr. Hook was proud of his scholar, for Edgar had done as well at work as at play.
When the holiday time came round, Edgar Foster bade farewell to Redbank with feelings of regret. As he looked back at the school he was leaving he thought of the many happy hours he had spent within its walls. He had gone through trial and struggle, such as every lad must encounter, but they only made victory taste the sweeter.
‘I shall feel quite lonely next term,’ said Will Brown, who was going home with Edgar to spend a few days. ‘It’s lucky for some of us Rakes is leaving, or he would have made it uncomfortably hot. I shall never forget the thrashing you gave him. It did me good to see you punish him;’ and Will Brown chuckled with delight at the mere thought.
‘If I never have a harder battle to fight than that,’ said Edgar, ‘I shall be lucky.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Will Brown.
‘With my father’s permission I shall go to Australia,’ said Edgar. ‘You know how fond I have always been of reading and learning about our great colonies. I think it is a splendid thing to start life in a new country, where you are not bound down by a lot of old-world prejudices.’
‘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.
‘Excuse the expression, Edgar,’ he said one day, ‘but your sister is a brick.’
The schoolboy ‘brick’ is synonymous for everything that is good. When one lad calls another a ‘brick’ there’s a ring about the word that is unmistakable. So, when Will Brown called his sister a brick, Edgar Foster heartily endorsed the sentiment.
‘I’d like to know,’ said Will, ‘if there is anything she cannot do?’
‘Several things,’ said Edgar.
They were sitting in a boat close to the garden hedge, and passing their time pleasantly enough.
‘Enumerate some of them,’ said Will Brown incredulously.
‘She cannot smoke,’ said Edgar solemnly; ‘nor can she make a speech. She would be a ghastly failure as a woman politician, or a leader of fashion. I am afraid she could not write a book, and drag all her female friends through a moral pillory in it. Oh, there are heaps of things Doris cannot do!’
‘And a jolly good thing, too!’ said Will Brown. ‘I hate stuck-up girls—they’re worse than spoony girls. Now, your sister—well, a fellow can make a chum of her, and all that, don’t you know.’
‘Comprehensive, certainly,’ laughed Edgar. ‘What does “all that, don’t you know” mean?’
Will Brown waved his hand towards the flowing river, and was at a loss for an answer.
Splash!
‘What’s that?’ said Will, as he shook the water off his boating-jacket.
‘That is Miss “All that, don’t you know,”’ laughed Edgar.
‘Where is she?’ said Will, jumping up, and narrowly missing overturning the boat.
‘In safety, on the other side of the hedge,’ said Edgar loudly. ‘She dare not come nearer, for fear of the consequences.’
Splash!
‘We had better get out of this,’ said Will.
A merry peal of laughter sounded from the other side of the hedge.
‘You lazy boys! I thought I would rouse you. Pull the boat round to the steps, and take me for a row immediately.’
‘We decline to be ordered about,’ said Edgar. ‘Ask politely, and your request may be granted.’
‘Will Mr. William Brown and Mr. Edgar Foster, of Redbank School—ahem! College—have the goodness to row to the steps of Elm Lodge, where they will find Miss Doris Foster at home?’
‘That’s much better,’ said Edgar. ‘Our compliments to Miss Doris Foster, and we hasten to comply with her request.’
‘Pull, Edgar, you lazy beggar!’ said Will, ‘for Elm Lodge, home, and beauty.’
Doris Foster looked charming in her light summer dress and large river hat, as she stood on the steps leading from the lawn to the water.
‘Your ladyship has showered many favours upon us of late,’ said Will Brown, as he gave her his hand and she stepped into the boat; ‘in fact, we are in danger of being overwhelmed with them.’
‘Doris, you ought not to throw stones,’ said Edgar, with an attempt to be serious.
‘I did not throw stones,’ said Doris.
‘You hear her?’ said Edgar to Will. ‘She did not throw stones! I blush for my sister.’
‘They were two half-bricks,’ said Doris. ‘Didn’t they splash!’ And she laughed merrily.
‘There’s prevarication!’ said Edgar. ‘A brick in this instance is to all intents and purposes a stone.’
‘A brick is a brick,’ said Doris; ‘therefore it cannot be a stone.’
‘A brick is not a brick when it is only half a brick,’ said Edgar.
‘If you don’t stop it,’ said Will Brown, ‘I’ll——Look out!’ he shouted.
There was a bend in the river, and they did not see the small launch until it was nearly on to them. The swirl she made in the water caused their boat to dance up and down in the swell.
‘All your fault,’ said Edgar to his sister. ‘But, thank goodness! it has put an end to your argument.’
They had a pleasant row, and came back glowing with health, and very hungry. Luncheon proved most acceptable, and was thoroughly enjoyed by these young people with good appetites and no thoughts of indigestion.
Doris Foster missed Will Brown when he left Elm Lodge, for she had come to regard him as a sincere friend. She had, however, other things to occupy her mind now, for Edgar was to sail for Australia in a couple of months. She dreaded the parting with her brother, not only on her own account, but because she knew how much her father would miss him. She was half inclined to be angry with Edgar because he had chosen to go abroad. At the same time, she admired the spirit of adventure that tempted him away from a comparatively easy life in England. She knew if she had been a man she would have followed her brother’s example.
Robert Foster made the most of the time his son was to remain at home.
‘I shall be sorry to part with you,’ he said to Edgar; ‘but you are young, and I am not old. So I hope, ere many years have gone, we may meet again. I believe it will do you good to go abroad. One thing you must bear in mind: come home again if you do not like it.’
Edgar Foster was fond of the sea, and, as his father knew the owner of one of the principal lines of sailing ships trading to Australia, he had decided to make the voyage in the Distant Shore, a large vessel holding a quick record.
‘You are quite sure you prefer to go out in a sailing vessel?’ said Robert Foster. ‘It will be a tedious voyage.’
‘I am sure the time will pass quickly,’ said Edgar. ‘I love the sea. Those big steamers are too much like hotels, and I cannot bear hotel life.’
‘Please yourself, my boy. The Distant Shore is a fine vessel, and Captain Manton a good seaman. He’ll look after you well, I feel sure.’
The weeks rolled all too quickly by, and the time drew near when the Distant Shore was to sail for Sydney.
Edgar Foster paid a visit to Redbank, and was heartily welcomed by his old schoolmates, who wished him a prosperous voyage and success in the new country. Dr. Hook was very kind to him, and gave him some good advice.
As Edgar shook hands with him, Dr. Hook said:
‘An old friend of mine once gave me what I consider good advice. He said: “Don’t fret, keep your temper, and mind your own business.” If you carry out his precepts, I think you will do well.’
Edgar did not feel in very good spirits when his last night at home arrived. As he looked around the cosy room, he wondered how many years it would be before he saw it again, and the dear ones he must leave behind. He said to himself he must work hard and earn a good name, and then he would come home and be received with open arms.
His father was kinder than ever on this their evening of parting, and Doris did all in her power to make things bright and cheerful. Edgar never ceased to remember this particular night, and it came vividly before him on many occasions when far away.
Robert Foster and his daughter saw Edgar sail in the Distant Shore, and waved him a tearful farewell.
As Edgar stood looking at them he felt lonely, and when they gradually receded from his sight he heaved a sigh, and felt a choking sensation in his throat.
When Robert Foster and Doris reached Elm Lodge again he kissed her fondly, and said in a broken voice:
‘God knows when we shall see him again, Doris. You are all I have left now; you must not leave your father.’
‘Edgar will return some day,’ she said quietly. ‘I will take his place until then. When he comes back you will forget all the sorrow of parting.’
Hundreds of people hurrying to business in Sydney at an early hour in the morning cast anxious eyes at the dull leaden sky, across which heavy clouds rolled, hanging over the harbour and the city. They also gazed in wonderment, and with feelings not devoid of awe, upon a mass of peculiar white clouds banked up in an exactly opposite direction to the harbour. These clouds were of a fleecy whiteness, balloon-shaped, and clung together until they were heaped almost mountains high.
There was a peculiar stillness about the atmosphere—the calm that usually precedes a storm. All day long the clouds hung suspended overhead, and towards the middle of the afternoon it grew much darker. People residing at harbour suburbs hurried home as fast as possible, and were glad when they were ferried safely across the water.
The Watson’s Bay ferry-boat was throwing off from the landing-stage as a well-built man in a pilot’s coat jumped on board.
‘Nearly missed it, Wal,’ said the skipper of the Fairy. ‘The next boat will have a rough passage, I reckon.’
‘Yes; it’s been brewing all day,’ replied Walter Jessop. ‘We shall have a terrible night, I fear. It will be dangerous near the coast to-night. Luckily, there’s no vessel been sighted anywhere handy.’
The speaker was evidently a seaman. He had an honest, open face, weather-beaten and tanned with exposure, and his hands were hard and big and used to hard work.
Pilot Jessop was well known in Sydney. In years gone by he had done good service as a pilot, and he still followed his calling, but fortune had favoured him in the shape of a windfall from a rich relation, and he only took on work when he felt inclined.
Walter Jessop knew the coast of Australia as well as any man, and he had sailed up most of the harbours and rivers between Adelaide and Normanton. Such a man was not likely to make many mistakes about the weather, and he knew what these lowering clouds that had been hanging about all day meant.
The Fairy was one of the smallest ferry boats on the harbour, and at this time Watson’s Bay was not such an important place as it is now. Pilot Jessop, however, found it handy to live at Watson’s Bay, as it was under the great shadows of South Head, beyond which lay the open sea. Many a ship had he piloted to a safe anchorage in the harbour.
When the landing-stage was reached, he bade the skipper of the Fairy good-night, and walked to his home, which nestled in a sheltered position high up above the harbour.
A bright little woman, clad in a homely dress, gave him a hearty welcome. Mrs. Jessop was just the wife for such a man, and they had only one regret: they had no child to lavish their affection upon.
‘We’re in for a storm,’ said Wal Jessop, as he was generally called. ‘I hope there’s no vessel making for the harbour; they’d better keep away from our coast to-night.’
‘I’m right glad you have no occasion to go to sea on such nights,’ said his wife. ‘It would make an old woman of me before my time if you were out in these storms.’
‘I weathered a good many storms before I met you,’ said Wal Jessop, ‘but I don’t feel much inclined for it again when I come to such comfortable quarters as these.’
A low murmuring sound could be heard, a door banged, and the windows creaked ominously.
‘It’s coming,’ said Jessop. ‘Make everything snug, my lass; there’ll be a perfect hurricane before morning.’
As Wal Jessop sat at the well-laden tea-table, he suddenly put down his knife and fork, and drew a paper from his coat-pocket.
‘I’d quite forgotten,’ he said. ‘I hope they’re not making for Sydney in such a gale as this will be.’
‘What ship do you mean?’ asked his wife.
‘The Distant Shore is due here early next week. It’s Saturday, and the agents expect her on Monday at the latest. I hope Captain Manton has not made an extra quick passage. She’s a clipping sailer, is the Distant Shore, and he’s a bit venturesome—likes to make a rapid run. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s not far away to-night.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Jessop.
Captain Manton often paid a visit to the Jessops when in Sydney, and the pilot and his wife were very fond of his company.
As the evening wore on the storm raged in all its fury. Every hour seemed to add to the velocity of the gale. A great roar like distant thunder could be heard in the cottage as the waves dashed against the mighty rocks of South Head, and then rushed back, baffled and angry.
‘It’s beginning to rain,’ said Wal Jessop; ‘I’ll just see if the pony’s all right before it comes on faster.’
‘Be quick in again,’ said his wife, ‘or you’ll be drenched.’
A fierce gust came in as he opened the door and quickly shut it again.
‘It doesn’t rain after all,’ he said, as he looked up at the dark clouds through which the moon occasionally shone in fitful gleams.
As if to convince him he had made a mistake, and that his first surmise was correct, a shower of heavy drops fell upon him. He stood still and thought for a moment; then he touched the wet on his coat and tasted it. It was salt, and he knew the waves outside were running high and dashing showers of salt spray over the top of the rocks, and the wind carried it across the village.
‘Such a sea is worth having a look at,’ he thought. ‘I’ll have a walk up to the cliffs before I turn in.’
He told his wife it was the spray from the waves being dashed on the rocks, and she knew it must be terrible out at sea.
Walter Jessop could not rest. He felt uneasy, and had an undefinable feeling that some dire catastrophe was about to take place. He sat down and tried to read the evening paper, but nothing in it interested him. His pipe continually went out because he was so deep in thought he failed to draw sufficiently to keep it alight. His wife watched him with anxious eyes. She had seen him like this before when he had been affected by a presentiment of evil. He got up from his chair and restlessly paced about the room.
‘Have a glass of something,’ said his wife. ‘It’s getting on for bedtime.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, lass: I fear there’ll be something awful happen before the night’s over.’
‘It’s the storm makes you feel like that,’ said his wife. ‘This will do you good.’ And she handed him a glass of toddy.
Wal Jessop drank it with evident relish. Then he looked at his watch, and said:
‘Ten o’clock. I’ll just go up on the cliffs, and have a look out to sea; I’ll never rest if I don’t.’
‘If you say you’ll go I know you mean it,’ said his wife; ‘but do be careful. You might get blown over the rocks.’
‘There’s a moon,’ he said; ‘and I’m more likely to be blown away from the rocks than over them. I’ll not be gone long. You go to bed.’
He put on a thick coat and slouch hat, kissed his wife, and then went out into the stormy night.
‘If he fancies I’m going to bed until he comes home he’s mistaken,’ said Mrs. Jessop to herself. ‘Oh, these sailors! A furious gale seems to tempt them outside when other folk are only too anxious to hide their heads under the bedclothes.’
Wal Jessop felt the full force of the wind as he made his way up a narrow path towards the top of the cliff. He battled with it, and seemed to take a fierce delight in overcoming it. A terrific gust nearly swept him off his feet, and he muttered:
‘Nearly had me that time, but I’ll beat the winds as I have done before. There’s some satisfaction in fighting a gale like this, but I’d sooner be doing it here than out at sea yonder.’
At last he reached the roadway, which he crossed, and then climbed up again towards the top of the rocks. As he made his way slowly the salt spray dashed into his face, and wetted him all over. He could hear the waves thundering against the rocks, and every roar was followed by a dense shower of spray. When he reached the top of the rocks the moon came out from behind a cloud, and shed a pale light on the scene.
Wal Jessop looked out to sea, and saw nothing but a black mass of tumultuous water and fierce waves chasing each other in mad sport. Then he looked down below and saw masses of foam tossed about and flung high into the air. He saw the great waves roll across the jutting rock, then dash furiously against the solid mass opposed to them, and cast up spray like a waterspout. This battle between the waves and the rocks had been going on for centuries, and would, he knew, continue for centuries more.The waves, constantly baffled and defeated, had to retreat, but they returned again and again to the charge, bringing up reinforcements from their mighty reserves, until at last the rocks seemed to give way inch by inch, and their jagged, worn fronts bore unmistakable testimony to the fierceness of the onslaught.
Pilot Jessop could not tear himself away from this scene of tumult and fierce war. He stood alone upon the rocks, the spray drenching him, and the wind whistling and whining in his ears. He knew there was a warm bed awaiting him at home, and yet he could not leave the spot. He peered out to sea, and saw an empty space. The moon was again hidden, and all was black and desolate. Suddenly he started, and gave vent to an exclamation. He thought he saw a tiny light sparkle far away out in the gloom. He looked again and again, but could see nothing. Could his eyes have deceived him? What could he have mistaken for a light so far out at sea? There it was again. He could not mistake it this time. There were two lights like stars; now he saw three. A cold, dull feeling came over him, and froze the blood in his veins; his heart beat loudly, and he put his hands to his head to think.
Was it a ship out at sea and heading for the harbour on such a night as this? Surely no captain would be so mad and foolish as to risk passing through that narrow strait between the Heads in such a gale! He looked again and again, and the more he looked the more he was convinced it was a vessel being driven on to the rocks. He knew if it was a ship she would be dashed into a thousand pieces and not a soul on board could be saved. Hoping against hope, he looked again. The light had gone, and he breathed more freely. His eyesight must have deceived him.
He felt a tug at his sleeve, and turning quickly round, faced his wife.
‘I could bear it no longer,’ she said; ‘you have been out over three hours. The suspense was terrible. I thought you were blown over the rocks. Come home, Wal, you are wet through.’
‘Three hours!’ he exclaimed, then, knowing how he had been compelled to struggle to reach the rocks, he took his wife in his arms, strained her to his breast, kissed her fondly, and said:
‘You are a brave little woman, and I’m a brute for causing you anxiety. We will go home at once. This is no fit place for you.’
‘Wal, Wal!’ she cried as she stared over his shoulder with wide, terror-stricken eyes; ‘look, there’s a light; two lights, three! It’s a ship! Lord have mercy on ’em!’
‘Good God, she’s seen it! Then my eyes have not deceived me. That’s what I’ve been watching this hour,’ he said.
They looked together out across the furious ocean, and saw the lights plainly now.
Mary Jessop hid her face on her husband’s shoulder and sobbed aloud. She knew not a single man, woman, or child on the ill-fated vessel could expect to live when the ship was shattered to pieces. As she stood there in the rocks with the wind roaring around her, safe in her husband’s strong arms, she offered up a prayer to the God who rules the seas to save the ship from destruction.
As for Pilot Jessop, he seemed for the moment incapable of action. He quickly recovered, and said in a hollow voice:
‘Suppose it’s the Distant Shore?’
His wife shuddered and said:
‘Can nothing be done to save her?’
‘No, Mary; she’s beyond control. No captain would be here on such a night if he had control of his ship. She’s helpless, and we are helpless; but we can rouse the folk and do all we can. Come.’
They went down the rocky path and hurried to the village, where, despite the gale, the people were sleeping soundly.
They roused two or three men, and telling them to pass the word on, they fought their way back to the top of the cliffs.
The Distant Shore made a quick voyage towards Australia, and her captain felt sure of beating the sailing record by two or three days. Captain Manton had taken a great liking to Edgar Foster, who spent many a pleasant hour in his cabin with him. On this voyage Captain Manton was accompanied by his wife and child, a bright little girl about three years of age. The child was very fond of Edgar, and he played with the little one on deck for hours at a stretch.
‘I never remember a more favourable voyage,’ said the captain to Edgar one morning; ‘we ought to be in Sydney harbour in the course of two or three days. Looks as though we are going to finish with a squall,’ he added, pointing to the restless clouds overhead.
‘I am quite anxious to weather a storm before we get to our journey’s end,’ said Edgar, smiling, ‘or I shall fancy I have not been to sea.’
‘Your wish is likely to be gratified,’ he said; ‘but the Distant Shore is a good ship, and it will be an uncommon bad storm she cannot sail through safely.’
‘With a good ship and a clever captain we have not much to fear,’ said Edgar. ‘Here’s little Eva coming for her morning romp. I should have been quite lonely on board without her.’
Edgar held out his arms, and the child ran into them. He lifted her above his head, where she laughed with delight, and looked at her father with merry eyes.
‘Pass her on to me,’ said Captain Manton; and Edgar tossed her into her father’s arms.
‘Back again,’ she cried, and she was tossed to Edgar again.
The captain watched them for a few moments as they played on the deck, and then cast an anxious look at the sky. He knew they were in for a storm, probably a bad one.
During the night Edgar heard the vessel creak and groan, and her timbers strain in a most unusual manner. The sailors were hard at work on deck, and he knew the storm must have burst upon them. He turned over in his berth, and felt thankful the Distant Shore was such a safe vessel, and her captain a trustworthy seaman.
Edgar had some difficulty in reaching the deck next morning. Not a single passenger was in the saloon as he staggered through, holding on first to one thing, and then another.
‘You had better keep below, sir,’ said one of the stewards; ‘you’ll stand a good chance of being blown overboard if you venture on deck. We are finishing up with a real bad storm.’
‘That’s just what I want to see,’ said Edgar.
‘You can’t get out that way,’ said the man; ‘the hatches are down. Come this way, and I will show you how to get on deck.’
Edgar followed the man to the fore-part of the ship, and was well knocked about during the journey.
‘Go up there, and you’ll be able to see what it’s like before you go on deck,’ said the steward.
‘Just as well to look before I leap, I suppose,’ said Edgar.
‘I don’t think you’ll want to leap on deck when you have had a look out,’ was the reply.
Edgar climbed up the steep steps, holding on with all his might. When he reached the top he saw there was a thick glass with bars across it. He could see well enough through the glass, and the sight almost took away his breath.
A huge wave towered high above the ship, and Edgar thought if it came over the deck the vessel must surely go down. The Distant Shore gave a mad plunge, and he nearly lost his foothold. The ship seemed to dive down into the depths of the sea, and then, coming up again, shook herself all over. On second thoughts Edgar decided to remain where he was, or rather down below in the saloon. Captain Manton entered a few minutes after Edgar succeeded in finding his way back.
‘Well, my lad, you’ve got a storm at last,’ said the captain; ‘I hope you are satisfied. My wife and Eva are in their cabin, and I don’t think they are quite so pleased as you are about the weather. It will get worse before it mends.’
‘Worse?’ said Edgar. ‘Why, it’s blowing a regular hurricane, and the sea is running as high as the ship.’
‘How did you find that out?’ said Captain Manton. ‘I gave orders no one was to be allowed on deck.’
Edgar explained, and the captain was satisfied.
‘So you did not like the look of things?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Edgar. ‘I think I am safer here, although I confess I feel a little queer.’
Captain Manton smiled as he replied:
‘Sea-sickness will soon cure you of a longing for storms. I’d advise you to turn in before you have to be carried to your berth.’
‘Oh, it’s not so bad as that,’ said Edgar. ‘It will pass off.’
‘No doubt,’ said the captain with a meaning smile.
All that day the storm raged, and the Distant Shore battled with it. As night came on, Captain Manton became anxious. He knew they were nearing the coast of New South Wales, and the wind was driving them straight in that direction. He tried in vain to alter the ship’s course, but he could not keep out to sea; some uncontrollable current appeared to drive the vessel along. As the night wore on there were no signs of the storm abating; in fact, the gale was worse than ever.
A terrible crash made everyone on board quake. A huge sea dashed over the ship, sweeping her deck well-nigh clear. The boats were smashed to atoms; two sailors were washed overboard, and Captain Manton was dashed against his cabin and almost stunned. Before the Distant Shore could right herself another merciless sea swept over her, and at the same moment the rudder chain snapped, and the vessel swung helplessly round.
Captain Manton at once realized the danger they were in. By the fitful light of the moon he saw the terrible havoc the waves had made on deck. Then he saw something that made his heart quail; it was the flashing of the light from South Head lighthouse. Well might a brave man tremble at the thought of being dashed to pieces on those great rocks. His ship was no longer under control, and he could do nothing to save her from being driven to destruction. Had the steering gear held firm he might have tried to dash through the Heads into the harbour. That would have been a mere chance; but even this, small as it was, had gone. Despair seized upon him, and held him in chains; but he burst the bonds at the thought of the lives of those on board. They were still some distance from the Heads; the light flashed out many miles to sea. He must prepare them as quietly as possible to await their fate.
Leaving the mate in charge of the vessel, he went below. He made for Edgar’s cabin and entered without knocking.
Edgar was wide awake and dressed, and he knew there must be something wrong when he saw the captain.
‘What is it?’ said Edgar. ‘Any danger?’ and he tumbled out of his berth.
‘You are a brave lad,’ said Captain Manton, ‘and I have come to you first. There is no time to lose. We are in deadly peril. I have no control over the ship, and we are being blown straight for the rocks.’
‘What can I do?’ said Edgar.
He was pale, but perfectly calm.
‘Very little,’ said Captain Manton; ‘but you can set a good example. A panic will only make matters worse. If the passengers are kept under control, it may be possible to save some of them. Will you call them up in the saloon cabin? Tell them to dress, and try and calm them. I will tell my wife and take her and Eva up with me. You will find them in my cabin. If it comes to the worst, do what you can for them. I must stick to the ship. I’ll save her if I can, but I see no chance at present. Good-bye!’
He held out his hand and Edgar gripped it hard. They looked firmly into each other’s eyes. They were not afraid of facing death. Edgar seemed to have grown older, and Captain Manton saw the look of determination on his face and thought to himself:
‘This lad will not fail me. He will give his life to save those I love.’
‘Good-bye,’ said Edgar, and without another word he went to rouse his fellow-passengers.
So well did he accomplish his difficult task that, although the peril they were in was understood, there was no panic. Happily there were very few women and children on board, and the men behaved well.
It was an awful sight, Edgar thought: the saloon filled with people hastening to their death, awaiting the summons from the captain, ‘All hands on deck,’ which meant they were to sell their lives as dearly as possible. The very suddenness of the danger appeared to have taken all sense of fear away. Not a word was spoken; the sobbing of children, and the half-smothered, heart-rending groan of some poor mother, could alone be heard.
A great rush of wind, followed by a loud shout, aroused them:
‘All hands on deck!’
Edgar led the way, and then stood by while the women and children were helped up the stairs. The men followed. Edgar was the last to leave the saloon. Once on deck he saw what their danger was, and from whence it came. The lighthouse stood high up on the rocks, flashing across the sea, and they were so near now that the rays lighted up the faces of those in deadly peril on the doomed ship. Edgar forced his way towards the captain’s cabin, and found Mrs. Manton and Eva crouching down, overcome with fear. He spoke a few words of encouragement, and little Eva looked up into his face with wistful eyes.
Then Edgar looked round the ship as the light flashed on it again. He saw pale, blanched faces all round him, men clinging in desperation to ropes and bars, and women holding their children fast, themselves held by strong men’s disengaged arms. It was an awful sight, but Edgar felt no fear for himself as he looked at it. He thought of the grand voyage they had gone through, and how near they were to their destination. The good ship was struggling on, and after going these thousands of miles was to be dashed to pieces at the very entrance to the harbour of safety. His mind wandered to those at home, and he seemed to see his father and sister sitting in the dear old room at Elm Lodge, as on that last night in the home he loved so well. Their voices seemed to ring in his ears, giving him hope and encouragement. He smiled faintly as he imagined he could hear his father say:
‘You’re in a tight fix, my lad, but never despair; be brave and fight to the end.’
A loud cry of despair echoed through the night. It was wafted to the watchers on the rocks, who stood there helpless, unable to lend a hand to save the men and women going to sure destruction. Again it rose above the roar of the sea, and Edgar shuddered as he heard it.
Well might the doomed ones cry aloud. To the right of them, not many yards away, yawned a large opening between the gigantic rocky Heads. Through that opening lay safety and rest, and yet no power on earth could drive the Distant Shore through it. Facing them was another gap, but there was no opening there; the solid rock rose straight out of the sea. On came the Distant Shore through the boiling, seething mass of waters.
Captain Manton stood at his post. Once he cast his eyes in the direction of his cabin, and a satisfied smile played over his face as he saw Edgar there.
‘My life for theirs, O God!’ he cried.
He was not a man given to many prayers, but he believed his cry would be heard.
Edgar looked ahead. He saw the vessel heaved high upon the waves; he saw the merciless rock in front. There was not a moment to spare. He rushed into the cabin.
‘Give me Eva,’ he said. ‘You will have a better chance alone.’
The mother pressed her child to her heart and smothered her with kisses.
Edgar snatched the child away and sprang out of the cabin. At the same moment there was a terrific crash, a rending and splitting of timbers, cries and groans, shrieks for help, and strange, unearthly sounds.
Edgar, with the child firmly clasped in his arms, was hurled against the side of the vessel. He felt it give way, and as he glanced round he saw the ship shattered into a thousand pieces, and great timbers hurled high into the air. Then he felt the water rush over him, he was lifted off his feet and flung into the furious waves, with little Eva still clasped firm in his arms.