Warner was sitting under a tree on the south bank of the Zambesi,
watching the local natives floating his waggon across the stream. He
was wondering how long, at the present rate of progression, it would
take to get the whole of his stuff across. Two days, three, perhaps
more.
"Sir, my felicitations upon the indefectibility of the climatology."
The startled Warner looked round and saw a black man very stout and
short, in European clothes and perspiring freely. He carried his large
elastic-sided boots in his hand and a black alpaca coat over his arm.
As Warner turned towards him, this strange creature politely lifted his
ridiculously small sun helmet. It could not be said that he bowed to the
white man, but the braces which he wore over his waistcoat sagged
slightly in front and became taut behind, whilst the crease which
represented the highest contour of his stomach deepened a little. Warner
gaped stupidly at the man. He made mental note of the large gold
spectacles astride the fat, flat nose; the collar, once white and
starched, now grubby and collapsed; the heavy brass watchchain stretched
tightly across the ample space between pocket and pocket; the badly
creased loud check trousers, and the dirty white socks; the large green
umbrella which, held to shield the back, framed face and form.
Warner forgot the man's ridiculous speech in his more ridiculous
appearance.
"As I ventured to remark, sir, although the orb of day smiles down with
radiance from the firmament, the temperamental calidity is not
unendurable."
"Yes," said Warner vaguely, "but who are you?"
"Sir, if you will pardon the expression I may say I am a kind of a
wandering refugee hailing from Jamaica with a mission to carry the
apprehensions of civilisation to the unspeakably incomprehending
aboriginal inhabitants of this beatific equatorial region who are
doubtless immersed in the chaotic complexity of irreligious heathenism
and incondite boorishness."
Warner eyed the speaker with astonishment, feeling tired, somehow, and
out of breath.
The black man saw, with obvious pleasure, the effect which his speeches
had produced.
He had spoken fluently, continuously, without pause or effort. Without
expression or inflexion the long unbroken flow of chosen words had
rumbled off his tongue.
He cleared his throat as if about to speak again, but Warner hastily
interposed.
"What is your name?"
"Joseph Johnson, sir."
"You are obviously a man of some education."
"Sir, if I may presume to express an opinion upon Your Honour's
personality I would hazard the conclusion that Your Excellency is a
gentleman of kindly but penetrating discernment for I received my
education at the hands of the Reverend Westinghouse Wilberforce of
Kingston Jamaica alas now dead of whom as the classical writer has it
_de mort nil ni bum_ I repeat sir _de mort nil ni bum_."
Warner abruptly turned his back, snatched out his handkerchief, and held
it tightly to his nose.
Joseph Johnson, mistaking for emotion the queer little sounds which
Warner did not entirely succeed in smothering with his handkerchief,
sniffed and blinked his small eyes sympathetically, murmuring
"_de-mort-nil-ni-bum_."
When Warner had regained his self-control he asked the black man what he
wanted.
"Sir, I am credibly informed that you are a distinguished member of a
profession which has my humble but unqualified admiration and regard for
what can be nobler than the unselfish alleviation in others of the ills
to which this weak flesh of ours is heir need I say the medical
profession?"
"What then?"
"I suffer your honour from a slight but painful derangement of the vocal
chords which hinders my fluency of enunciation and so disturbs my mental
process as to detract from the strength of my disputations and
dissertations."
"You mean you have a sore throat?"
"Sir, you grasp my meaning."
"You want some medicine for it?"
"Sir, if I might so far encroach upon your generosity...."
Warner rose hastily and walked to his goods piled up on the bank
awaiting transportation, leaving Johnson to rumble on and on.
Here, then, was another patient. He must be careful. The man might know
something and question his treatment. That would be most awkward.
"Corrosive sublimate? Wounds, the orderly had said, and had warned him
about burning out the bottom of the pot used when mixing the stuff.
Better look through the rest before deciding.
"Pills? Might do the objectionable fellow some general good.
"Iodine? Yes, that's the stuff for him. Iodine for housemaid's knee or
sore throat. Well, the man said he had a sore throat and he should know,
so iodine let it be. Where's the brush?"
Warner opened the bottle. The cork was a little soft and inclined to
crumble. He dipped the tip of the large camel's hair brush into the
dark brown liquid and called Joseph Johnson to him.
"I am going to paint your throat. It also wants a thorough rest, so you
must not talk more than is absolutely necessary."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now open."
The black man's mouth was immense. Warner had never seen such a cavern,
nor, for that matter, had he ever seen such a perfect, strong, clean set
of teeth. He gave little dabs here and there, this side and that, and
then withdrew the brush.
"That's enough for this morning. Come again at sunset, and remember,
don't talk."
This admonition he repeated in self-defence. He rather dreaded the man's
brook of words.
His patient bent forward slightly, put on his sun helmet and walked
away, his eyes watering a little.
The man was most obedient. Punctually at sunset he again appeared. He
smiled pleasantly at Warner, but did not announce himself with any
long-winded speech.
Warner looked at the throat and remarked that he thought it was better,
that one or two applications would set it right. He then painted as
before.
This time Johnson coughed and large tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.
Then it occurred to Warner that he himself, when a child, had had his
throat painted, more than once. He recollected that the operation was
not a pleasant one. He had coughed a great deal, and his eyes had
watered very much. Clearly he was underdoing it. No matter, he would put
that right to-morrow.
Warner was pleasantly surprised when, in the morning, the local natives
came to tell him that they were about to cross the river with the last
of his goods, after which they would take him if he was ready to go. He
had expected the job to take at least another day.
He kept back the bottle of iodine and the camel's hair brush, and sat
down on a camp stool to wait for Johnson.
In about a quarter of an hour the patient arrived.
"How are you this morning?" asked Warner pleasantly.
"Much better, I thank you, sir."
"Let's have a look. Capital, capital. Now don't move, I'll just touch it
up."
Warner, remembering his overnight decision, plunged the brush deeply
into the bottle and withdrew it fully charged and dripping.
He began to dab the throat here and there as before. A gurgling sound
came from Joseph Johnson's mouth. Warner recognised the warning. He knew
his time was distinctly limited. He felt that, if he did not hurry, much
of the enormous cavern would remain unpainted. With a rapid movement,
like one stirring porridge to save it from burning, he finished the job
and stepped back.
Joseph Johnson seemed to explode. Tears forced their way through his
tightly closed eyelids. A roar boomed from the painted throat. The
patient's condition quite alarmed the doctor. Surely the fool wasn't
going to die?
Looking round for inspiration, Warner saw that the native canoe had
returned to ferry him across the river. He didn't actually run away, but
quickly corking his bottle of iodine he walked briskly to the river
bank, entered the canoe and told the crew to paddle to the other side.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he stepped ashore. He looked back, but
could see no sign of Joseph Johnson.
* * * * *
Some weeks later his troubled conscience was set at rest by the
following letter:
"Bulawayo,
"21/4/19.
"Honoured Sir,
"The enablement was not vouchsafed to me to indicate to Your
Excellency the prodigious potentiality of the prophylactic applied
with such consummate and conscientious technicality to my
unostentatious tenement of clay. For full three weeks the
taciturnity prescribed was obediently observed without difficulty
or mutinousness of feeling. After which, rising from the slough of
my despond, I found my multiloquence had returned fourfold, my
linguacious allocution and discursive conversationalism prominently
augmented. I then felt that my mission was not to the unenlightened
ignoramusses of this neighbourhood but to the encyclopedical
omnicients of the south. I have therefore returned to Bulawayo. Now
here...."
As there were four closely written pages of this kind of thing, Warner
turned to the last of them, which ended:
"Sir, I have the honour to be
"Your Honourable Excellency's most grateful, most humble, most
obedient and unforgetful servant,
"JOSEPH JOHNSON."