“Be it so, and welcome; I’ll pay ten guineas for having better manners than any of you,” cried Hervey, laughing; “but remember, though I’ve lost this bet, I don’t give up my pedestrian fame.—Sir Philip, there are no women to throw golden apples in my way now, and no children for me to stumble over: I dare you to another trial—double or quit.”
“I’m off, by Jove!” said Sir Philip. “I’m too hot, damme, to walk with you any more—but I’m your man if you’ve a mind for a swim—here’s the Serpentine river, Clarence—hey? damn it!—hey?”
Sir Philip and all his companions knew that Clarence had never learned to swim.
“You may wink at one another, as wisely as you please,” said Clarence, “but come on, my boys—I am your man for a swim—hundred guineas upon it!
——‘Darest thou, Rochfort, now
Leap in with me into this weedy flood,
And swim to yonder point?’”
and instantly Hervey, who had in his confused head some recollection of an essay of Dr. Franklin on swimming, by which he fancied that he could ensure at once his safety and his fame, threw off his coat and jumped into the river—luckily he was not in boots. Rochfort, and all the other young men stood laughing by the river side.
“Who the devil are these two that seem to be making up to us?” said Sir Philip, looking at two gentlemen who were coming towards them; “St. George, hey? you know every body.”
“The foremost is Percival, of Oakly-park, I think, ‘pon my honour,” replied Mr. St. George, and he then began to settle how many thousands a year Mr. Percival was worth. This point was not decided when the gentlemen came up to the spot where Sir Philip was standing.
The child for whose sake Clarence Hervey had lost his bet was Mr. Percival’s, and he came to thank him for his civility.—The gentleman who accompanied Mr. Percival was an old friend of Clarence Hervey’s; he had met him abroad, but had not seen him for some years.
“Pray, gentlemen,” said he to Sir Philip and his party, “is Mr. Clarence Hervey amongst you? I think I saw him pass by me just now.”