Well, one fine day shortly after Davy had exhausted the last available religion, De Toits Pan was invaded by a commercial traveller in a brand-new fancy faith, the name of which I forget, but it was one freshly imported from America, and was guaranteed to be something quite new, slick and up-to-date. In fact, its votaries might reckon on a first-class ticket up to heaven, without any detention at the custom-house, while, provided they subscribed liberally, they might even expect to be transmitted there in a private fiery balloon. Now I never knew the ritual of the band of brothers, as they called themselves, but I knew it was necessary for a recruit, upon his initiation, to be soused over head and ears in water, which was meant to typify that all past sins would be washed away, although I guess it would have taken more than one ducking in cold water to have made an impression on the case-hardened iniquities of some of the converts who joined the movement. Yes, by gad! it would have required scalding water, soft soap, soda, and a wire scrubbing-brush to have shifted their moral delinquencies. Still, if the tubbing did not purify their immortal souls, it had a salutary effect on their hides, so we can pass that part of the performance as O.K.
Now, this missionary, spiritual bagman, or call him what you like, was at the first go-off of his raid very successful, doing a great business and roping in very many proselytes, so many, in fact it made the sky-pilots in the older established firms buck up, and look askance. He laboured, however, under one very great disadvantage—viz. there was no building in De Toits Pan procurable, large enough to contain the necessary water tank, so that until one could be built the numerous recruits had to be taken on the Sunday to the Modder River, and be ducked therein. Well, just as the new movement was in the hey-day of its popularity, good old Davy went on one of his rare jamborees, and, faute de mieux, at once fell into line, signed on as a brother, and on the following day (Sunday) went to the Modder River with a number of other neophytes, male and female, to undergo their preliminary water cure. Now it chanced that, on the same Sunday evening, I happened to be chatting in the De Toits Pan club, when all of a sudden in dashed Davy in a great state of perturbation. Rushing up to the bar he demanded a double-headed whisky straight, which he swallowed like an oyster, then promptly held out his glass for another supply.
“Hullo, Davy,” quoth one of those present, “you seem to be gulping down the cratur with unction. I thought you would have been nursing your new religious doctrines at this time of night.”
Davy answered him not, but with a growl ordered the barman to refill his glass.
“Why, Davy, what’s the matter?” queried another. “What have they been doing to you to capsize you in this fashion, and why don’t you take water with your pongello?”
“Water, indeed,” snarled Davy. “I sha’n’t want no water for another month.” And he made a motion to the barman to pass the bottle.
“Here, ease up, Davy,” said I. “You’ve had enough. Leave the whisky alone, and come over here. Sit down and tell us how you got on this afternoon at the washing fête.”
“Whoi,” grumbled the old fellow, whom, it seemed, the third nobbler had somewhat pacified, as he took the offered chair and proceeded to light his pipe, “I didn’t get on at all, and this new-fangled religion ain’t worth a cuss. ’Tain’t one as any man with any common-sense ’ud cotton to, and as for the sky-pilot, he’s jist as hignorant as a howl.”
“Well, well, tell us all about it. Did you imbibe the faith?”
“Faith, be d——d!” he growled. “I didn’t imbibe nothing except a gallon or two of Modder River water.” And he expectorated with disgust. However, after he had been smoothed down a bit, and had had another tot, he bucked up and related his tribulations as follows:—