The well-meaning man frequently meets with trouble too, although it is the one thing he doesn't want. When he is in difficulties, people pity him; they give him that pity which is akin to contempt, not to love.
But Harry Warner was lucky. He most certainly went in search of trouble; he also meant well. His reward was unusual and quite out of proportion to the little good he did. He achieved immortal, if only local, fame.
It was the natives who dubbed him "doctor." He wasn't one, he had no medical qualifications and little knowledge of medicine.
But what do black people know or care about qualifications? Wasn't Warner always accessible? Did he not give medicine to all who asked for it, no matter what the disease might be? Did not some of those to whom he gave medicine recover? Had he ever asked anyone for payment?
So the natives declared, and do still declare, that there never has been, never will be, never could be so great a doctor in their country as he.
Now if Warner possessed no medical knowledge, he had the "goods." The goods consisted of a miscellaneous collection of superfluous drugs, plasters and pills, all a little stale, packed in an old whisky case and presented to him by a hospital orderly of his acquaintance.
Warner watched the packing and asked questions.
"Iodine, what's that for?"
"Oh, sore throat, water on the knee, to stop vomiting, for fixing a gumboil, chilblains, and a host of other things. It's made from seaweed."