same time, as different from G.K.C. as possible in
his pale slimness and almost transparent appearance, was no less busy
over a thousand activities. It was interesting that he should ask
Gilbert's help, especially in that cementing of Catholics throughout
the Empire that has always so passionately preoccupied him. In the
War he had discovered in military hospitals the ordinary Englishman
and above all the ordinary Australian and New Zealander. To them and
to the Apostolate of the Sea he was to devote primarily all his later
life.

Writing therefore to counsel the Chestertons as to which Catholic
works should have precedence, we find him wanting an article for a
New Zealand paper "the only one of its sort in N.Z., and you may say
that it affects the _entire Catholic_ community of the two islands,"
an autographed book for "a hulking devotee of yours and a member of
the Australia rugger team, I think eight of them are Catholics." This
"would give enormous joy to him" and "would be known in no time
throughout Australia. Do try to."

From South Africa he wrote to Frances:

You will be surprised to get a letter from me from a nameless place
50 miles inland from the Nyanga mountains, which you will find
(variously spelt) westward from, say Beira on the African east coast.
This is the reason--

Recently a boy in a kraal here was found cutting pious pictures
from a newspaper that he had somehow got hold of (he was a good
little Catholic!). "Why are you cutting out that one?" "Because
_this_ is a Great Mukuru in the Catholic Church." (Mukuru is
Potentate and will serve from St. Joseph right along to the Pope, not
to mention the Little Flower. . . .) The Great Mukuru in this case
was yourself! So there!

I hope you will smile with pleasure, but not try to answer, as
please God I sail on the 31st and ought to be back in London in early
Sept., a good deal better, thank God.

Please remember me affectionately to Gilbert. This is the first
time a typemachine has clicked just here; its accompaniment, in an
otherwise dead silence, is a distant gurgling yodel, so to say--some
native feeling happy in the brilliantly hot sunlight, which, all the
same, cannot make the thin air hot. I sleep (when possible) under
furs, with the occasional insect dropping off the thatch over my head.

Later, planning a meeting for the Apostolate of the Sea at Queen's
Hall, he writes to Gilber