A Case of Mistaken Identity.
by Owen Oliver.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #11 (Feb 1906).
The adventures of a curate who was mistaken for a prize-fighter.
A man may be famous without knowing it. I have recently learnt that public interest has been aroused by my labours on behalf of the Curates Augmentation Fund at St. Mark's, Surbiton, where I am the curate. The incident through which I became aware of this fact presents many gratifying features.
The Fund, which is designed to supplement the curate's inadequate stipend, had not attained its customary proportions during the present year, and the bazaar held to make good the deficiency had failed to achieve financial success, owing to the contributions in kind too frequently taking the form of embroidered slippers of the size known as "narrow sixes." I may note for the information of the ladies of the congregation, that the male foot of the parish inclines to substantial leather footwear of the size termed "broad tens."
In previous years any shortcomings in the fund had been made good by the generosity of Mr. Josiah Bayley, a wealthy and public spirited member of our church. Upon this occasion, however, he was taking the bracing air of Sheerness, owing to indisposition, and his return was not expected until a fortnight after the quarterly instalment was due.
Under the circumstances, the vicar suggested that I might, without impropriety, make personal inquiries into the state of Mr. Bayley's health, which naturally caused us great anxiety. I readily assented.
I had just taken my seat in a second class carriage at Victoria, when I became aware that I was attracting a large amount of attention from the persons who had assembled upon the platform. One rough man whispered audibly: "That's him!" Another remarked: "That's Smith. Bill Smith, you know." My name is Smith–the Rev. William Smith, B.A., Oxon. I am not ordinarily addressed by the abbreviated appellation of Bill.
In a short time there was a crowd round my compartment, though no one entered it. When the train started several people wished me good luck in my undertaking. One young woman with frizzy hair over her forehead waved a discoloured handkerchief, and shouted a hope that I'd come back a richer man. The exact term which she employed was "bloke."
As the faces of my well-wishers were unknown to me, I was unable to account for their greetings.
At Herne Hill a little newspaper boy seemed strongly attracted by my personality. I was not altogether surprised by this, as I am said to have a pleasing way with children, but I was struck by the persistence with which he intreated me to buy the fourth edition of a certain evening newspaper. He told me, in a whisper, that my "picture" was in it. I bought the paper to please him, but found no picture, except that of a broken-nosed man named William Smith, alias "Conkey Bill," who it appeared was a professional boxer, and contemplated boxing Alf Harris, sometimes named "Bill Bayley," to a finish, with 4oz. gloves, on Dead Man's Island, near Sheerness.
My countenance is of a somewhat austere type, and my nasal organ bears the marks of an accident at school; but, beyond some superficial similarity in features, I could discover no justification for confounding me with this villainous-looking prize-fighter.
The journey passed slowly and uneventfully till we reached Chatham. Then two stout men, obviously of Judaic origin, after peering in several times at the window, entered the compartment. They addressed one another as "Ikey" and "Abram." When the train had started, they addressed me:
"Fine day," the gentleman named Isaac observed.
"Very fine day," I agreed.
"Better than last time we met," the one named Abraham stated.
"Er—yes," I assented. I did not remember meeting him, but I am always careful to avoid hurting the feelings of the lower orders. "I don't know how it's going to turn out," I added. The clouds were somewhat threatening.
"I only hope it won't turn out worse than last time," Isaac said. "You took a pony off me, if you remember."
"Ah!" I said. "Yes, yes! I had it in a little trap, if I remember?" I never ride; but I am fond of driving.
They looked at one another and laughed, as if I had said something funny.
"Trap's right!" Isaac said. "You took me in fair the night before. When I saw your pals wheeling you home in the barrow I never dreamt it was all a fake, and you was as sober as I was! And Abram here was positive you wouldn't be able to stand on your legs the next day."
"There must be some mistake," I said in astonishment. "I remember no such incident!"
"Come, come!" Abraham protested. "We know you! Though I will say as you're got up a wonderful swell, and might be a parson almost." My costume was not markedly clerical.
"Your conjecture is partly correct," I informed them, "but I think you are under some misapprehension as to my identity."
"We'd make a pretty good guess any how," Isaac declared.
"Come, now," I said playfully, "I'll lay you can't guess my name, or where I am going, or what I am going for."
"What will you lay?" He took out a grimy little black book and a pencil.
"I did not intend to propose a wager," I explained. "It would be inconsistent with my avocation to bet."
They laughed louder than ever.
"Especially if you were to lay against yourself," Abraham remarked. "Not meaning as you would, of course."
"And I wish I hadn't laid against you, either," Isaac stated. "You've got a soft thing on; and if I'd known what I know now—well, I'd be glad to get out of it for another pony, and that's a fact!"
"Same here," said Abraham.
They both looked at me in a curious manner.
"I don't quite understand," I owned; "but if I can assist you in any—any reasonable way, that is—I shall be glad to do so."
They looked at one another and whistled.
"Now you're talking!" Abraham pronounced emphatically. "I told lkey I knew you."
"I don't think you do," I said with a genial smile. "Suppose you guess?"
"What's the good of beating about the bush?" Abraham asked impatiently. "We'll be at the junction in half a mo'."
"Let us have our little joke, Abram," Isaac said, winking slily. "Well, now, I'd guess as your name was something very like Bill Smith."
"My name is William Smith," I owned. "I am gratified to find that I am so well known."
"Well known," said Abraham. "Why, that boko of yours 'ud give you away anywhere."
He alluded, I imagine, to my nasal organ.
"I'd make another guess," said Isaac, "as you were changing at Sittingbourne Junction, for Sheerness."
I confessed that Sheerness was my destination.
"Just a short visit," he suggested.
I admitted that I merely contemplated a temporary sojourn.
"Expecting to meet a chap by the name of—let's say Bill Bayley?"
"The accuracy of your information astonishes me," I said. "I may, however, mention that Mr. Bayley's Christian name is Josiah. You are possibly confusing him with the hero of a song which, I have reason to believe, is popular."
"Always understood his proper name was Alfred," Abraham objected.
"Oh, no," I told him. "Josiah, I assure you."
"I expect he isn't looking forward to meeting you?"
"No," I agreed. "I imagine not." So far as I was aware, Mr. Bayley had received no intimation of my visit.
"You're hoping to be a little richer for meeting him?" Isaac inquired.
"I confess," I said, "that my journey is influenced to some extent by pecuniary considerations. Possibly you are aware that the Curate's Augmentation Fund—the fund for paying the curate's salary, I mean—is somewhat low, and—er—"
"And you're the curate?" Abraham suggested.
"I am," I agreed.
They looked at one another and laughed in an uproarious and uncalled-for manner.
"Eggs-ackly," Isaac said. He leant forward and wagged his forefinger at me. There were three large rings on it. "Now look here, Bill. You're a sensible chap. You know as well as me that jobs like you're going on are uncertain—blooming uncertain."
"There is," I admitted, "an element of uncertainty in my errand; but I have no serious doubt as to the result."
"Still," he persisted, "you can never tell, now can you?"
I agreed that in this, as in other terrestrial affairs, certainty was unattainable.
"Now, suppose," he went on, "for the sake of argument, that you do pull it off. What do you get? It wouldn't be a pony, now would it?"
"Certainly not," I said. I could not refrain from smiling at the idea of Mr. Bayley's donation taking such a form.
"And there's the risk. Whereas Abram and me would give you fifty pounds—good, hard, yellow sovereigns"—he jingled a bag in his pocket—"just to forget to change at Sittingbourne and go on to Dover."
I stared at him in amazement.
"I promised my friends," I began, but he held up his hand.
"You would come back by the next train," he said, "and explain it was an oversight—what might happen to anybody. And you could meet Bill Bayley another time, the meeting this afternoon being off in his favour. We'd like to do him a good turn, you see, that's where it is." He winked at Abraham and Abraham winked at him. "What do you say?"
"Do I rightly understand," I inquired, "that, on consideration of my acting in the—er-curious manner which you suggest, you are prepared to subscribe fifty pounds to--er—"
"To the Curate's Fund!" Abraham said.
"Understanding, of course, that you'll keep it dark," Isaac added.
"Trust him for that," said Abraham.
"Indeed, gentlemen," I assured them, "you may trust me to respect your confidence. I think I can guess the motives which impel you to this generous action, but—"
"I've no doubt you can," Isaac agreed.
"I feel sure I can," I said warmly. It was evident to me that, while they appreciated my charitable labours in the parish, they wished to avoid offence to the prejudices of their co-religionists, some of whom would probably meet them at Sheerness. "They are, I am certain, worthy of you. I have much pleasure in accepting your handsome offer."
"Done!" said Isaac.
He pulled out a linen bag, untied it, poured a heap of sovereigns on the seat, and cheerfully counted out fifty.
I had barely secured the money when the train ran into the junction. At the request of my benefactors I kept at the far end of the compartment. They skipped out with surprising agility before the train was at a standstill, evidently wishing to secure corner seats in the Sheerness train before they were all appropriated by the roughs, who were apparently proceeding to the pugilistic encounter at Sheerness.
I arrived at Dover in due course, and, after waiting for some hours, obtained a slow train back to Sheerness. When I alighted at the station I found that a huge crowd had assembled to witness the departure of "Conkey Bill," who had won the boxing-match, and Alf Harris, who had lost it. Among the crowd I saw my Judaic friends, looking very dishevelled and unhappy. I regret to state that they appeared to be under the influence of liquor. When they saw me they pushed through the crowd in my direction.
Their utterances were somewhat incoherent; but I gathered that they repented of their sober benevolence, and desired the return of the donation, which they had made through me. I explained that I had no authority to make disbursements from the Fund, and that their application should be addressed to the Vicar, as chairman of the committee. This did not satisfy them, and they abused me with opprobrious epithets.
A number of roughs gathered round, and as some of them began to hustle me I offered to state the whole circumstances of the transaction. Thereupon the consciences of the Judaic men seemed to trouble them, and after whispering to one another, they said they had made a mistake, and I need not say anything. So I departed.
The man named Isaacs wished to follow me, but his companion pulled him back. "He's too fly for you, Ikey," he said. "Best keep away from him, or he'll have your watch and chain!"
I was returning with the view of remonstrating with him upon his entire misconception of my character, but a porter dissuaded me.
"They're as drunk as lords, sir," he said, "and don't know what they're saying. Why, they've been trying to make out that "Conkey Bill" wasn't hisself, but somebody else in disguise, and they had seen him go off to Dover in a train with some money of theirs!"
It was somewhat annoying that they should, even in their intoxicated condition, confuse me with this disreputable person; but I was glad to learn that the amount which they desired to recover was money which had been obtained in some fraudulent way by "Conkey Bill," and not the unsolicited contribution which they had made, through me, to the Fund.