Sanders was at "chop" one blazing morning when his servant, who was also his sergeant, Abiboo, brought a card to him. It was a nice card, rounded at the corners, and gilt-edged, and in the centre, in old English type, was the inscription—
Rev. KENNETH McDOLAN.
Underneath was scribbled in pencil: "On a brief visit." Sanders sniffed impatiently, for "reverend" meant "missionary," and "missionary" might mean anything. He looked at the card again and frowned in his perplexity. Somehow the old English and the reverendness of the visiting card did not go well with the rounded corners and the gilt edge.
"Where is he?" he demanded.
"Master," said Abiboo, "he is on the verandah. Shall I kick him off?" Abiboo said this very naturally and with simple directness, and Sanders stared at him.
"Son of sin!" he said sternly, "is it thus you speak of God-men, and of white men at that?"
"This man wears the clothes of a God-man," said Abiboo serenely; "but he is a black man, therefore of no consequence."
Sanders pulled a pair of mosquito boots over his pyjamas and swore to himself.
"White missionaries, yes," he said wrathfully, "but black missionaries I will not endure."
The Reverend Kenneth was sitting in Sanders' basket-chair, one leg flung negligently over one side of the chair to display a silk sock. His finger-tips were touching, and he was gazing with good-natured tolerance at the little green garden which was the Commissioner's special delight.