An enormous crowd assembled on the famous cricket-ground at Lord’s to witness the final battle between England and Australia. The record attendance was registered for the opening day of a match, and it was with difficulty that the crowd could be kept within bounds. It reminded old race-goers of a Derby Day to see so many vehicles driving in the direction of the ground. Although the sky was dull and threatening, this did not damp the ardour of the spectators. The members’ pavilion was thronged1, and also the reserved stands and enclosure. A dense2 mass of people filled every available standing3 and sitting place in the cheaper portion of the ground. No sooner were the doors opened than a rush commenced for the best seats, which were secured by those who had been patiently waiting from an early hour in the morning.
Outside the high walls it was more like a fair than anything else. Itinerant4 vendors5 of a variety of eatables did a good trade, and evaded6 the attentions of the police with remarkable7 skill. No sooner did the man in blue move a coster on than he ‘bobbed up serenely’ in a different place. Portraits of the cricketers were hawked8 about, though the celebrities9 depicted10 would have had some difficulty in recognising their own faces. The excitement over the match was tremendous. The bus-drivers discussed the chances of success with the passengers nearest to them, and many of the cabmen wore the English colours on their whips. Morning editions of the evening papers met with a ready sale, and every scrap11 of news anent the great match was pounced12 upon with avidity.
Before noon a few drops of rain fell, and with the gathering13 clouds the faces of the people became sombre, and their looks gloomy. A heavy shower would make a good deal of difference, and none knew it better than the members of the teams.
Robert Foster stood inside the pavilion, with his son and Will Murch, anxiously scanning the clouds for a sign of a break. They had not long to wait. The blue sky became visible, and the sun chased the dulness away and shed its brilliant rays on the scene.
And what a sight it was as they looked from the pavilion over the ground! A dense mass of people lined the enclosure, and even pressed over the boundary line in some parts of the ground. To the left of the pavilion the enclosure was gay with the costumes of the ladies, and they seemed as eager for the game to commence as any of the male sex.
Doris Foster accompanied Muriel Wylde and her mother, and they were escorted by Will Brown and Ben Brody, who felt slightly uncomfortable in a hard hat and a pair of gloves—not to mention a new suit, made by a fashionable tailor. They occupied seats in the first enclosure, and had an excellent view of the ground.
The mere14 mention of Lord’s conjures15 up wonderful feats16 in the cricket field, and recalls memories of men who played on its green sward. A glance round the pavilion shows the members have not been unmindful of their doughty17 champions of the game. It gives the history of cricket, its rise and progress, in a pictorial18 form, to look at the various prints, paintings, and engravings hanging on the walls. The ‘tall hat’ period is well represented, and young cricketers may well be forgiven for smiling at the costumes of the men who made the game what it is. The smile, however, was not at the men—there was nothing but praise for them. Old stagers waxed eloquent19 over the doings of the cricketers of their younger days. They vowed20 there were as good men then as now, although they had to confess the game had improved—and consequently the players also.
A gray-headed veteran came up to Robert Foster and said:
‘We had big crowds in our day, but nothing like this,’ and he waved his hand in a comprehensive sweep round the circle of faces.
Edgar was introduced to the veteran, who said:
‘I remember the first time I saw your father play. He was about your age then, and he was a bat. I’ll never forget it. It was on this very ground—Surrey against Middlesex. He won the match, my boy. I’d[235] sooner you were for us than against us to-day, if you can play as well as your father did then.’
‘I recollect21 that match,’ said Robert; ‘but you give me too much credit when you say I won it for the team.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied the veteran. ‘Ask any man who saw it, and I’ll guarantee he tells the same story. Is it not recorded in the annals of cricket?’
‘We’ve lost the toss,’ said Edgar. ‘The usual luck at Lord’s.’
‘I expect they will bat,’ said Robert Foster.
‘I doubt it,’ said Edgar. ‘The ground is a bit tricky22 and in favour of the bowlers23. Grace has gone to have a good look at the wicket. He knows there are no chances to be thrown away.’
The tall figure of the English captain, with his black, bushy beard, stood out boldly against the background of people. It was in the days when Grace was at his best, and Dr. E. M. was another of the valiant24 brothers who took the field; Shaw and Morley, the famous Notts bowlers, were in their prime, and Daft had not yet retired25 from the field—when such grand men as A. P. Lucas, A. G. Steel, A. Lyttelton and Lord Harris were seen at nearly every big match. It was an anxious moment for everyone as Grace consulted with two of his team as to whether they should bat.
At last the decision came. The Englishmen were to bat, and a mighty26 cheer went up from the crowd.
‘The pitch is all right, or Grace would not have gone in,’ said Robert Foster.
‘Perhaps he thinks it will wear all right for their innings, and leave us with the ground cut up,’ said Murch.
People settled down in their places, and m............