At these oppressive activities Bastin looked on with a gloomy eye.
“You fellows seem very busy,” he said one evening; “but I can find nothing to do. They don’t seem to want me, and merely to set a good example by drinking water or tea while you swallow whisky and their palm wine, or whatever it is, is very negative kind of work, especially as I am getting tired of planting things in the garden and playing policeman round the wreck which nobody goes near. Even Tommy is better off, for at least he can bark and hunt rats.”
“You see,” said Bickley, “we are following our trades. Arbuthnot is a lawyer and acts as a judge. I am a surgeon and I may add a general—a very general—practitioner and work at medicine in an enormous and much-neglected practice. Therefore, you, being a clergyman, should go and do likewise. There are some ten thousand people here, but I do not observe that as yet you have converted a single one.”
Thus spoke Bickley in a light and unguarded moment with his usual object of what is known as “getting a rise” out of Bastin. Little did he guess what he was doing.
Bastin thought a while ponderously, then said:
“It is very strange from what peculiar sources Providence sometimes sends inspirations. If wisdom flows from babes and sucklings, why should it not do so from the well of agnostics and mockers?”
“There is no reason which I can see,” scoffed Bickley, “except that as a rule wells do not flow.”
“Your jest is ill-timed and I may add foolish,” continued Bastin. “What I was about to add was that you have given me an idea, as it was no doubt intended that you should do. I will, metaphorically speaking, gird up my loins and try to bear the light into all this heathen blackness.”
“Then it is one of the first you ever had, old fellow. But what’s the need of girding up your loins in this hot climate?” inquired Bickley with innocence. “Pyjamas and that white and green umbrella of yours would do just as well.”
Bastin vouchsafed no reply and sat for the rest of that evening plunged in deep thought.