I knew him at once, since we had met before, especially on a certain
occasion in Zululand, when he calmly appeared out of the ranks of a
hostile native _impi_. He was one of the strangest characters in all
South Africa. Evidently a gentleman in the true sense of the word, none
knew his history (although I know it now, and a strange story it is),
except that he was an American by birth, for in this matter at times his
speech betrayed him. Also he was a doctor by profession, and to judge
from his extraordinary skill, one who must have seen much practice both
in medicine and in surgery. For the rest he had means, though where
they came from was a mystery, and for many years past had wandered about
South and Eastern Africa, collecting butterflies and flowers.

By the natives, and I might add by white people also, he was universally
supposed to be mad. This reputation, coupled with his medical skill,
enabled him to travel wherever he would without the slightest fear of
molestation, since the Kaffirs look upon the mad as inspired by God.
Their name for him was "Dogeetah," a ludicrous corruption of the English
word "doctor," whereas white folk called him indifferently "Brother
John," "Uncle Jonathan," or "Saint John." The second appellation he got
from his extraordinary likeness (when cleaned up and nicely dressed)
to the figure by which the great American nation is typified in comic
papers, as England is typified by John Bull. The first and third arose
in the well-known goodness of his character and a taste he was supposed
to possess for living on locusts and wild honey, or their local
equivalents. Personally, however, he preferred to be addressed as
"Brother John."

Oh! who can tell the relief with which I saw him; an angel from heaven
could scarcely have been more welcome. As he came I poured out a second
jorum of coffee, and remembering that he liked it sweet, put in plenty
of sugar.

"How do you do, Brother John?" I said, proffering him the coffee.

"Greeting, Brother Allan," he answered--in those days he affected a kind
of old Roman way of speaking, as I imagine it. Then he took the coffee,
put his long finger into it to test the temperature and stir up the
sugar, drank it off as though it were a dose of medicine, and handed
back the tin to be refilled.

"Bug-hunting?" I queried.

He nodded. "That and flowers and observing human nature and the
wonderful works of God. Wandering around generally."

"Where from las