Kissing my hand to my cheering audience I mounted the steps placed against the end of the tank, and with a magnificent splash leaped into the water—I cannot strictly say I dived, for, on surveying the constricted area of my aquatic operations, it seemed folly to risk cracking a valuable head.
Unluckily, I had omitted in my enthusiasm to remove even my top-coat, and either in the air or the water (I cannot say which) I drove my foot through the torn lining. Conceive now the situation into which my recklessness had plunged me—entangled in my overcoat at the bottom of six feet of water, struggling madly to free myself, with only a sheet of transparent glass between me and as dry a stage as any in England; drowning ridiculously in clear view of a full and enthusiastic house. My struggles can only have lasted for a few seconds, though to me they seemed longer than the ten minutes I had boasted of, and then—the good God be thanked!—I felt the side of my prison yield to my kicking, and in another moment I was seated in three inches of water, dizzily watching a miniature Niagara sweep the stage and foam over the foot-lights into the panic-stricken orchestra.
“Down with the curtain!” I heard some one cry from behind, but before it had quite descended the Amphibious Marvel had smashed his way out of his tank and leaped into the unwilling arms of the double-bass.
Ah! that was a night to be remembered—though not, I must frankly admit, to be repeated. Another mêlée with the exasperated musicians; a gallant rescue by Teddy and his friends; a triumphant exit from the Umpire borne on the shoulders of my cheering admirers; all the other events of that stirring night still live in the memory of “Good old Juggins.” To my fellow undergraduates of an evening I dedicate this happy, disreputable reminiscence.
