“Good!” cried Trenby. “There’s a chap here named Murphy who thinks he can swim. We’ll have a lark with him, and unless I’m greatly mistaken we’ll rope in a few others of the ‘wide ones’ into the bargain.”
In those days—it may be so now for aught I know—the sporting element in Melbourne were wont to meet together in the hotel bar known as “Under the Earth,” situated in Burke Street, mention of which has been made in the previous chapter. A lot of us used to go swimming in the public baths every morning, and foregather here for a livener and a chat afterwards.
Well, for a whole week I went swimming with the rest, and, acting under Trenby’s instructions, I made no end of an exhibition of myself; diving in awkwardly flat on my stomach, and panting and splashing and puffing and blowing after I was in, like a maimed grampus. All the while, however, I pretended to think I was getting on famously, and one day when we were all enjoying our drinks in the “Under the Earth” bar Jack purposely switched the conversation on to swimming, and referred somewhat slightingly to my efforts in that direction.
Thereupon I pretended to get huffed, and offered to swim Murphy the length of the public bath and back again for a five-pound note.
Murphy snapped at the bet like a hungry dog at a bone, and every “bookie” there, and nearly every other man in the bar, rushed at me with their money, imploring me to raise my stakes and let them in. Jack Trenby, I may add, was loudest of all in asking to be given a chance to win my money, and although he must inwardly have been bursting with laughter, he never showed a trace of it on his countenance.
At first I feigned reluctance, but in the end I accepted their bets up to a total of £50, and the money was put up with Mrs. Hill, the proprietress of the hotel, the race being timed to come off at eleven o’clock on the following morning. After a little while, however, I pretended that I was only bluffing, and wanted to call the bets off. “You know, boys,” I said, “that I’m no swimmer. You’ve all seen me at the baths. I’m only a novice. I was just swanking. Tell you what I’ll do! Call the bets off, and I’ll set up wine for the crowd.”
But they only laughed, and told me that I had asked for it, and that I had got to go through with it. They, of course, thought that the £50 was as good as won.
Then, after a while, I changed my cue, and told them the truth. “Look here, boys,” I said, “I’ve been kidding you all for over a week. Take my tip and call the bets off. I’ll show you in the morning how easily I can beat Murphy, and for nothing. Why, I can swim the hundred yards within a second or two of the record time. I only wanted to show you all how easily I could have you. I don’t want your money.”
But no! They wouldn’t have it at any price. Not a man there, barring of course Jack Trenby, but imagined that I was bluffing, and though I went up to each one separately and offered to call his individual bet off, not one would agree to it.
Next morning all sporting Melbourne was at the baths. The Press, too, was represented. Murphy had seen to that.