It had been decided that there never was such a resemblance as is to
be traced between my homely features and those of a visitor to the
same hotel last year--Dr. Sullivan of Wigley Street. This had become
an established fact irrefutable like a proposition of Euclid and
one of my new friends, who was also a friend of the Dr. Sullivan of
Wigley Street who had so satisfyingly and minutely anticipated my
countenance, made it the staple of his conversation. "Isn't Mr.
Blank," he would say to this and that _habitué_ of the smoking-room as
they dropped in from the neighbouring farms at night, "the very image
of Dr. Sullivan of Wigley Street, who was here last year?" And they
would subject my physiognomy to a searching study and agree that I
was. Perhaps the nose--a little bigger, don't you think? or a shade
of dissimilarity between the chins (he having, I suppose, only
two, confound him!), but taking it all round the likeness was
extraordinary.
This had been going on for some time, until I was accustomed, if not
exactly inured, to it, and was really rather looking forward to the
time when, on returning to London, I could trump up a sufficient
ailment to call upon my double in Wigley Street and scrutinize
him with my own eyes. But last night my friend had something of a
set-back, which may possibly, by deflecting his conversation to other
topics, give me relief. I hope so.
It happened like this. We were sitting in the smoking-room as
usual, he and I, when another local acquaintance entered--one who,
I gathered, had been away for a few weeks and whom I had therefore
not yet seen, and who (for this was the really important thing to my
friend) consequently had not yet seen me.
In course of time the inevitable occurred. "Don't you think," my
friend asked, "that Mr. Blank is the very image of Dr. Sullivan of
Wigley Street, who was here last summer?"
"What Dr. Sullivan's that?" the newcomer inquired.
"Dr. Sullivan of Wigley Street, who was fishing here last summer.
Don't you remember him? The very image of Mr. Blank."
"The only Dr. Sullivan I know," replied the newcomer, "is Dr. Sullivan
of Newcastle. He's a very old man by now. A very learned man too. He
has a wonderful private museum. He--"
"No, no, the Dr. Sullivan I mean was From Wigley Street--a
specialist--who took the Manor fishing last summer and stayed in the
hotel."
"Dr. Sullivan of Newcastle is a very old man--much older than
Mr. Blank here, and not a bit like him. He's a most interesting
personality. He is the great authority on the South Sea Islanders.
You should see his collection of Fiji war clubs."
"But that's not the Dr. Sullivan I mean. You must remember him,"
said my impresario; "we all used to meet evening after evening, just
as we're doing now--Dr. Sullivan of Wigley Street, the specialist,
a clean-shaven big man, exactly like Mr. Blank here. Everyone has
noticed the likeness."
"Dr. Sullivan of Newcastle has a beard," said the newcomer. "And he's
a very old man by now. A great receptacle of miscellaneous learning.
He showed me once his collection of coins and medals. He's got coins
back to the Roman Emperors and stories about every one of them. His
collection--"
"Yes, but--"
"--of idols is amazing. You never saw such comic figures as those
natives worship. There's nothing he doesn't collect. He's got a mummy
covered with blue beads. He's got skulls from all over the world,
showing different formations. It's some years--"
"Yes, but--"
"--since I saw him last, and of course he may be--"
"Yes, but--"
"--dead. But if not he's a man worth knowing. If ever you go to
Newcastle don't forget about him. But he must be very old by now.
He--"
At this point I finished my glass and slipped away to bed. Consulting
the mirror as I undressed, I smiled at the reflection that confronted
me. "You can sleep well to-night," I said, "for there are signs that
you are about to have a rest."
* * * * *