By the natives, and I might add by white people also, he was universally supposed to be mad.  This reputation, coupled with his medical skill, enabled him to travel wherever he would without the slightest fear of molestation, since the Kaffirs look upon the mad as inspired by God.  Their name for him was “Dogeetah,” a ludicrous corruption of the English word “doctor,” whereas white folk called him indifferently “Brother John,” “Uncle Jonathan,” or “Saint John.”  The second appellation he got from his extraordinary likeness (when cleaned up and nicely dressed) to the figure by which the great American nation is typified in comic papers, as England is typified by John Bull.  The first and third arose in the well-known goodness of his character and a taste he was supposed to possess for living on locusts and wild honey, or their local equivalents.  Personally, however, he preferred to be addressed as “Brother John.”

Oh! who can tell the relief with which I saw him; an angel from heaven could scarcely have been more welcome.  As he came I poured out a second jorum of coffee, and remembering that he liked it sweet, put in plenty of sugar.

“How do you do, Brother John?” I said, proffering him the coffee.

“Greeting, Brother Allan,” he answered—­in those days he affected a kind of old Roman way of speaking, as I imagine it.  Then he took the coffee, put his long finger into it to test the temperature and stir up the sugar, drank it off as though it were a dose of medicine, and handed back the tin to be refilled.

“Bug-hunting?” I queried.

He nodded.  “That and flowers and observing human nature and the wonderful works of God.  Wandering around generally.”

“Where from last?” I asked.

“Those hills nearly twenty miles away.  Left them at eight in the evening; walked all night.”

“Why?” I said, looking at him.

“Because it seemed as though someone were calling me.  To be plain, you, Allan.”

“Oh! you heard about my being here and the trouble?”

“No, heard nothing.  Meant to strike out for the coast this morning.  Just as I was turning in, at 8.5 exactly, got your message and started.  That’s all.”

“My message——­” I began, then stopped, and asking to see his watch, compared it with mine.  Oddly enough, they showed the same time to within two minutes.

“It is a strange thing,” I said slowly, “but at 8.5 last night I did try to send a message for some help because I thought my mate was dying,” and I jerked my thumb towards the tent.  “Only it wasn’t to you or any other man, Brother John.  Understand?”

“Quite.  Message was expressed on, that’s all.  Expressed and I guess registered as well.”

I looked at Brother John and Brother John looked at me, but at the time we made no further remark.  The thing was too curious, that is, unless he lied.  But nobody had ever known him to lie.  He was a truthful person, painfully truthful at times.  And yet there are people who do not believe in prayer.